A Deadly Challenge
by Igiveup
Summary: A new enemy challenges Holmes to see if the detective's skills are as great as everyone claims. But if Holmes loses, it will cost him dearly. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John H. Watson are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Thank you to everyone who has left reviews and/or favorted my previous stories. I really do appreciate the feedback. I also want to thank Protector of the Gray Fortress for giving me some much needed advice for this story. This one is a bit different from my usual stuff._

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"Well Thurston, it looks as though you've lost for once," said Doctor Watson with surprise as the eight ball rolled into the corner pocket. Thurston, a tall man with thin blond hair and muddy brown eyes gave him a weak smile. "Victory is indeed yours my good man. I should consider myself grateful we were not playing for money." He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. Watson looked at him with concern. 

"It was hardly a fair contest, your mind was clearly somewhere else the entire game. Normally you are far better at American pool than I am. What is troubling you? Is there anything I can do to help?"

Thurston chewed on his lower lip and looked wildly around the room. Leaning forward, he whispered softly, "May I speak with you? In private, I mean."

Watson smiled kindly. "Certainly, just give me a moment to retrieve my hat and coat and we'll be on our way." He wondered what was wrong with his companion. Whatever it was, it must be quite personal for Thurston to fear someone over hearing them.

Outside the night was clear but bitterly cold. Every now and then there would be an icy gust of wind that seemed to cut through Watson's clothes and straight to the bone. He shivered slightly and wrapped his coat more tightly around himself. The streets were practically deserted, and Thurston seemed relieved. "Come on, this way," he whispered, pulling Watson along behind him. They crossed the street and passed two buildings before ducking into an alleyway. 

Watson took a quick glance at his surroundings. The building to his left was rundown with the windows boarded up. A wooden stairway led to a side entrance. The building to his right was unremarkable, save for a pile of rubbish that included some wooden boards that lay against it. Watson leaned against the banister and rubbed his leg, the cold was making it ache dreadfully.

Thurston leaned against the building opposite. "Watson, I-" he started to say, and then stopped. "It is a terrible position-" Thurston stopped again. "Do you have a match? I really need a cigarette right now."

Watson sighed and reached into his pocket. "Here you are. I don't know why we can't have this conversation indoors." Thurston tried to light his cigarette but his hands were shaking too hard. Finally Watson lit it for him. "Now, what sort of terrible position are you in?"

Thurston continued to shake as he took a long drag off his cigarette. Whether it was from the cold or his nerves Watson could not be certain.

"I am in trouble Watson," Thurston said finally. "I found myself in serious debt after a bad investment and was forced to borrow money from a neighbor. He gave me a deadline in which to pay him back and told me if I could not meet it I could work off the debt by doing some favors."

Watson felt a sense of dread. The desperation in Thurston's voice told him that Thurston had not been able to pay off the loan-and that the favors were most likely illegal. When Watson voiced his suspicions Thurston looked down at the pavement and nodded. "Please Watson, I am at my wit's end. You must help me! I cannot go to the police, he will have me killed for sure!"

Watson was uncertain about what to do. If Thurston was too afraid to talk to the police Watson would not be able to force him to. Perhaps Holmes would be willing to help.

"Would you trust my friend Sherlock Holmes to help?"

Thurston swallowed hard. "Perhaps," he said uncertainly.

"Then let us go there now. I will fetch us a cab." As Watson turned to leave the alley he heard a clatter behind him. Before he could turn to look, something struck him in the back of the head, sending him sprawling to the pavement. "What-" he tried to say as he struggled to stand, just before another blow came down rendering him unconscious.

Thurston tossed the board aside and tried to swallow down the bile rising in his throat as he knelt at Watson's side, checking to make sure the doctor still breathed. "Forgive me," he whispered.

"Well done, Thurston," said a voice behind him. "For a moment there I was afraid you had lost your nerve."

Thurston looked over his shoulder. A man stood at the top of the stairs, his face obscured by shadows. Thurston scrambled to his feet. "I-I kept up my end of the bargain," he stuttered, "w-will you keep yours?"

The newcomer chuckled. "Certainly," he said as he removed a roll of pound notes from his pocket and threw it at Thurston. "A deal is a deal, after all." Thurston grabbed the money and turned to go. He hesitated and glanced back at Watson. "Um, you aren't-you won't _hurt_ him, will you?"he asked, knowing how foolish the question sounded after what he had just done, and unable to voice the real question on his mind.

"Of course not," the man said soothingly. "I have already told you I need him alive, remember?"

Thurston nodded slowly and after taking one last look at Watson ran off into the night.

The gentleman on the stairs climbed down and knelt at Watson's side. "Of course," he said slowly as he lifted Watson off the ground, "it is simply amazing what a person can live through. Wouldn't you agree, doctor?"

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**_To be continued..._**


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for all the reviews everybody! Here comes chapter two. 

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"Mister Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson as she shook the sleeping detective's shoulder. "There's a gentleman here to see you." Holmes groaned and sat up. Taking his watch off the night stand, he saw that it was around eight o'clock in the morning._ He must consider his case quite important to show up at this early hour,_ Holmes thought. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Give me a few moments to get dressed and I will see him. Oh, what time did Watson come in?"

Mrs. Hudson paused at the door. "He hasn't returned yet sir."

"That's odd," Holmes muttered. Then he shrugged. _Perhaps he simply lost track of time while playing billiards and decided it was too late to come home and spent the night at the club._ Watson had done it before in the past, but it had been awhile.Still, it was the only explanation that made sense to Holmes. "Will there be anything else, sir?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Holmes shook his head and she left the room. With a sigh, Holmes got out of bed and began to get cleaned up and dressed. He hoped the client's story would not take too long to tell, especially since he would have to repeat the information to Watson later when he did turn up.

When Holmes finished dressing, he entered the sitting room to find his client sitting at Watson's desk, glancing over the papers resting on it.He was a tall man with wide shoulders and sunburned skin. His hair was dark and curly, and he had a pencil thin mustache. His clothes were of a high quality, indicating he was from a high social class. _So why is his physical appearance more that of a day laborer?_ Holmes wondered, puzzled, and slightly annoyed at the man for snooping.

When he caught sight of Holmes, the client stood up and walked over to him. "Well sir," he said. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I have heard a great many things about your remarkable talents, and have wondered how much were true and how much was pure exaggeration." Noticing the expression on Holmes' face, he hastily added, "I hope you will beg my pardon for looking over the papers on the desk. I have been told on more than one occasion that I am a dreadful busybody. I keep trying to mind my manners, but curiosity always gets the better of me in the end."

"I am sure," said Holmes a bit impatiently,raising a hand to halt the man's words. Enough was enough, it was time to get to the point of this visit. "Your name, sir?"

"Oh! Do forgive me, I have forgotten my manners. Mister Peter Bryson, at your service," said he, bowing at the waist. Judging by his speech, he seemed to be a well educated man, and his eyes were bright with mental activity.

"What business has brought you to me?" asked Holmes, leaning back against the mantel with his arms folded across his chest while Mr. Bryson seated himself.

Mr. Bryson gestured to the paper bag he was holding. "I have some items here that have recently come into my possession, would you be so kind as to humor me and have a look at them?" 

"Is there something unusual about them?" Holmes asked as he took the bag. The first item he removed was a tan frock-coat. The owner was clearly a writer, as proven by the fact the right cuff was shiny for five inches, and near the elbow was a smooth patch where the arm rests on the desk. Holmes felt a growing sense of dread. Watson had a frock-coat almost identical to this one. The exact same color, the same design on the buttons. His attention became riveted to a jagged tear in the left shoulder. The surrounding area was stained with blood, as if the person wearing it had been attacked with a knife. _It is only a coincidence,_ Holmes thought desperately. It was getting harder to breathe. _This can't possibly be-_ There was something in the inside pocket. When Holmes saw what it was, the floor dropped out from beneath him and he fell into his chair.

It was a fifty guinea watch, covered with scratches around the keyhole, and the letters "H.W." etched on the back.

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**_To be continued..._**


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry the last chapter was so short! I hope this one will make up for it.

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Holmes realized he was shaking.He glared at Mr. Bryson who had leaned back in his chair with one leg casually crossed over the other.This man this _monster_-had taken Watson, and had already harmed him, as the bloodstained frock-coat made painfully clear.

"Where is Watson?" Holmes demanded. "By heaven you had better answer me or I'll-" he stopped, letting the rest of the threat hang in the air. He could not stop shaking. Bryson smiled and slowly stood up. He began to walk around the room, fingering various items as he passed them.

"I must say, the doctor was certainly wrong about one thing, you are hardly a heartless machine. The way he described you in his writings I was expecting a mild annoyance, not the barely contained rage you're displaying now."

Holmes leapt to his feet, ready to tear the man's jaw off. "Damn you, tell me where Watson is!"

Bryson laughed. "Let me see if I can guess what you're thinking. Right now you would probably like nothing more than to take that iron poker from the fireplace and bash my skull in with it. But I don't think you'll do that... in fact I don't believe you'll so much as lay a finger on me."

"What makes you so sure of that?" Holmes hissed through clenched teeth.

"Because only I know where he is, and only I know the nature of his imprisonment. Perhaps he is all alone and completely dependant on me for food and water. Now let me see, the longest a human being can live without water is what was it? Three days?" Bryson laughed again. "Do you have enough faith in your skills to find him in so short a time? Or perhaps I have left him in the loving care of an associate or two, and they are under strict orders to kill him if I do not return at a certain time."

_"**Enough!**" _Holmes started towards Bryson, having every intention of thrashing the hide off of him, but then Bryson spoke again, and his words stopped Holmes cold. "Or, perhaps I have told them that any injuries I have on my person up my return should be inflicted on the good doctor." _He's right, _Holmes realized as the full horror of the situation finally sank in. _I can't touch him, not without risking Watson's life._ He stepped back, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Bryson grinned at this.

"Ah, you're finally getting it aren't you? I do not fear your threats and I do not even fear death, because I have nothing to lose. You on the other hand, have everything to lose."

There had to be some way to make Bryson talk, but how? Begging? The very idea filled Holmes with revulsion. But if it would help Watson...

"Please, just tell me what you've done with Watson, and why you are doing this?" At least he did not have to pretend to sound desperate and afraid. Still, Holmes hated how pathetic his voice sounded. He never had to beg an enemy for mercy before, not sincerely at any rate. _This had better work._

"Well, I see you've finally remembered your manners," said Bryson as he adjusted his collar. "Well then, it is quite simple really. As I said when I introduced myself, I have often wondered just how much of your skills are true and how much of them are exaggerations. Watson is out there somewhere, and all you have to do is find him."

"That is all?!" Holmes roared. "You kidnapped Watson just to test my abilities? Why should I have to prove myself to the likes of you?"

"Because if you don't, he will die. As I said, it is simple. You have two weeks to find him. You can question witnesses, look for clues, pretty much treat this like any other investigation. If you get to him in time, you are free to take him home with you. If you don't reach him in time... you will find his bloodied corpse on your doorstep. Is that understood?"

Holmes, completely sickened, nodded. This task was not going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but even if he did succeed, there was no way Bryson would just let him leave with Watson. Bryson was probably going to kill them both anyway. He wanted to toy with his victims first, that much was crystal clear.

"Oh, and one more thing. You must not ask for any outside help. That means no Mycroft, no street urchins, and no Scotland Yard." Bryson laughed again. "Though from what I understand you would not find the last one very helpful anyway. If you break that rule, you won't even be able to give Watson the dignity of a proper burial. So, do we have a deal?" He extended his hand.

Holmes glared at it as if it were a rodent. Keeping his hands at his sides, he narrowed his eyes and said, "As it appears that I have no choice in the matter, I accept your challenge. But mark my words-I will win, and you will pay dearly for this."

"We'll see, we'll see. Now I don't think you are foolish enough to try to follow me but just to be sure, can I have your word you won't? The doctor has said you have a gift for making yourself practically invisible when the need arises."

Holmes clenched his fists. "You have my word, I swear I will not follow you."

"What do you swear by, Holmes? I need to be absolutely certain you will not break your promise," Bryson was clearly enjoying this immensely.

Holmes closed his eyes, his heart pounding as if it would break his ribs. "I swear on Watson's life I will not follow you!"

Bryson patted Holmes on the shoulder. "There now, that wasn't so difficult now was it?"

As he was leaving he called out cheerfully, "Have a good day, Mr. Holmes!"

_

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**If this looks like a total mess, it's the site's fault, not mine. I tried my best to fix everything though. And of course: to be continued...**_


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you all so-o-o-o much for the reviews! I really, **really**, appreciate it._

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After Bryson had left Holmes stood in the middle of the room, in complete shock at what had just happened. His mind felt as if it had shattered into a thousand pieces, and he could not seem to sort them out again. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He knew he had to get his emotions under control, that Watson's life depended on it. When he opened his eyes again his gaze fell on Watson's frock-coat and watch, both of which had fallen to the floor when Holmes had jumped up to attack Bryson. He knelt down and slowly picked them up. He looked at the bloodstained tear in the coat's shoulder. He had never been prone to flights of fancy, but right now at that moment he could actually _see_ the knife fall, could _hear_ Watson cry out in pain. Holmes began to shake again.

_Pull yourself together man!_ Holmes scolded himself. _This won't do Watson any good at all._ He forced himself to calm down. He could do this, he _could._ Holmes needed to think. The first place he should go was the club to see if Watson had even made it there, and if he had, what time he left. If he had not gotten that far... but Holmes' mind could not think that far ahead. _One thing at a time,_he told himself. He prayed he would be able to get a lead at the club. He knew he should try to find out who Bryson really was, and what his real motivations were, but at the moment all Holmes cared about was getting Watson away from that lunatic.

He was jolted from his thoughts by a knock at the door. He quickly stood up. "Yes?" he asked, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. Mrs. Hudson stuck her head through the doorway. "I was just wondering when you'd be wanting breakfast Mr. Holmes."

The very idea of eating anything made him feel physically ill. "I won't be eating anything this morning, Mrs. Hudson. A case of some importance has come my way and I must get going." His voice was cold and clinical, completely devoid of emotion. He wasn't sure if Bryson had included Mrs. Hudson as outside help, but even if he hadn't Holmes had certainly no intention of getting her involved with this. She may have been able to aid him in his capture of Colonal Sebastion Moran, but that was something different all together. Holmes could not see how she could be of any help this time. There was also the fact that she loved Watson, and Holmes, as if they were her own flesh and blood. He did not want to cause her any more worry than necessary.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to sense that something was amiss and opened her mouth as if to say something, but then changed her mind. With a slight shrug she said, "Very well then. Good luck to you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Holmes walked into his room, gently folding Watson's frock-coat as he moved. He set on the chair near his bed. He turned the watch over in his hands a few times, running his fingers lightly across the "H.W." etched on the back before placing the timepiece in his breast pocket, just above his heart. "I _will_ find you, Watson," he whispered. "I promise."

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The cold snap from the night before had not lessened in the slightest. If anything it actually felt colder, despite the bright morning sunshine. The cab ride had to be the longest one in Holmes' entire life. He spent most of it fidgeting, drumming his fingers impatiently against his knee. _Can't this thing go any faster?_ he thought. Valuable time was slipping away from him. Just when he thought he could no longer stand it, the cab finally pulled up in front of the club. Holmes practically threw the money at the driver as he jumped out.

Holmes had only accompanied Watson to the club about four times. Every one of those times had been because there was a severe lack of cases and Watson had wanted to give Holmes something to do so he would not take up the cocaine. Holmes left his coat and hat on one of the hooks by the door and started to walk down the hallway toward the reading room.

"Why, Mr. Holmes! What a pleasant surprise!" said a voice from behind him. Holmes looked over his should to see who it was. A short man with wild red hair scurried over to him. "Ah, Mr. Alexander, was it?" Holmes' acting skills had not failed him yet. His tone was warm and friendly.

"Indeed, sir. What brings you here at this fine hour of the morning? If you are looking for Doctor Watson I'm afraid he's not here."

"I know," Holmes said, feeling his chest tighten. "You were here last night, correct? Did you happen to see Watson then?"

"Why, yes, now that you mention it. He and Thurston were playing billiards and pool together. I have to say though, Thurston was certainly acting oddly. The doctor had noticed it too. He must have offered to take Thurston home because the two of them left together."

"Wait, Thurston and Watson left together? You are quite certain of that fact?" When Alexander nodded, Holmes asked, "You wouldn't happen to know what time that was, would you?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Somewhere between ten-thirty and eleven though. Around that anyway."

"Thank you Mr. Alexander, you have been most helpful," Holmes said with genuine gratitude. So, Thurston was the last person to have seen Watson before he was abducted. There marked Holmes' next destination.

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**_To be continued, of course._**


	5. Chapter 5

_Again, thank you for all the great reviews. You probably already know this, but this is the Thurston mentioned in The Dancing Men._

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After another seemingly endless cab ride Holmes arrived at the home of Samuel Thurston. The maid answered the door. "Oh, yes, he's here sir. If you would just come into the foyer I will get him for you." A few moments later Thurston entered the room. His hair stuck out in all directions, and his clothes were disheveled as if he had slept in them. His eyes however were swollen and bloodshot with dark circles underneath, indicating that his night had been a sleepless one. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Holmes. Holmes glanced back at him with some puzzlement. Was that _terror_ on Thurston's face? Why would he be so fearful to see Holmes?

"Ah, Thurston," Holmes said, trying to keep his tone warm and light. "I do hate to trouble you when you are obviously unwell but a matter of some importance has come my way and I need to ask a few questions. It is about Watson and-" at the mention of Watson's name, Thurston's face turned dead white, and he backed up a little.

"Wuh-Watson?" he echoed. "Why? Is suh-something wrong?"

Thurston's odd behavior was sending off warnings in Holmes' mind. He recalled Mr. Alexander saying that Thurston had been acting oddly before he and Watson had left the club together. Thurston was also the last to see Watson before he was abducted, and now here he was acting utterly terrified and jumpy at Holmes and his questions. Could he somehow be involved in this? The only conflicting evidence was that Thurston was Watson's friend, surely he would never do anything like that, right?

"Yes. May I speak with you in private for a moment?" At the sound of that, Thurston visibly began to tremble. _Maybe he really is involved..._Holmes thought, praying desperately that he would be proven wrong. To have Watson abducted by a total stranger was one thing, but to have him also be horribly betrayed by someone who was supposed to be his friend... "Do you have an office or a study where we won't be disturbed?" Holmes asked, still pretending nothing was seriously wrong.

Thurston's head jerked up and down like a puppet's on a string. "Yuh-yes. Follow me." They went down the hall and entered a room near the stairs. Holmes closed the door behind them.

"Now, then. Watson did not return home from the club last night. When I went to look for him there this morning I was told he had left late last night, and that you were with him."

Thurston's shaking had become so pronounced his teeth were audibly chattering. "H-he suh-summed a cab for me, said I looked sick. Then when thu-the cab showed up, he paid the f-fair and luh-left." The whole time he spoke he kept his eyes on the floor.

"You are lying to me, Thurston," Holmes said, allowing some of the cold anger he was feeling slip into his voice. "It was cold last night, and you know as well as I do that Watson's leg acts up in this weather. Also, if he believed you to be ill he would have accompanied you back to your home to make sure you arrived safely. What is your reason for lying Thurston? Watson is your friend, you should want to help me find him. I can't do that if you make up stories. Now, you were the last to see Watson before he vanished. What happened after the two of you left the club? Tell me the truth!" He took a menacing step toward Thurston, who backed up so quickly he tripped over the rug and landed flat on his back. Holmes reached down and yanked him up by the arm, causing Thurston to cry out in pain. "You will be hurting a lot worse if you don't tell me what really happened," Holmes warned him. All the facts were pointing toward his theory being correct- and all he could think was _how?_ How could Thurston have done this?

Thurston whimpered, his eyes filling with tears. "I-I had n-no choice! I nuh-needed the money buh-but I duh-didn't know what he w-wanted until it was too late to g-get out of the deal. I-If I hadn't gone along wuh-with it he would have killed me!"

"What did you think I was going to do to you when I found out?" Holmes yelled. He remembered how smug Bryson looked when he handed over Watson's possessions. He slammed Thurston against the wall. "How could you betray Watson like that? He was your friend, he would have been willing to help you!"

Thurston was crying openly now. "I-I know, in the a-alley he suggested I ask yuh-you f-for advice."

"What alley? Where?" Thurston continued to sob. Holmes grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him so hard his head snapped back. "Tell me where Thurston-and spare me your tears, they won't help you at all."

"The o-one near th-the club. Just cross the street and two buildings away," Thurston choked out.

"What happened after Watson offered you my help? Answer me!" Holmes was livid. He may not have been able to lay a finger on Bryson, but at least he could punish Thurston for his betrayal.

"H-he turned to leave a-and wuh-when his back was turned I s-struck him with a b-board."

Holmes slammed his fist into Thurston's mouth. Thurston fell to the floor, his mouth covered with blood. "Now, tell me one last thing. The man who hired you-I assume he was waiting somewhere nearby? Did he happen to give you his name?"

"Buh-Bryson."

"What did he look like?"

"Tuh-tall, b-broad shouldered. Curly dark h-hair, and-and a mustache."

Thurston looked pleadingly at Holmes. "H-he promised he wuh-wouldn't hurt Watson, th-that he needed him a-alive."

If he had expected Holmes to be at all moved by that statement he was grievously mistaken. Holmes glared back at him with full fury. "Watson is the hostage of a madman, Thurston. A madman that you delivered him to. Do not be surprised if I do not take any comfort in such promises."

Thurston stayed where he was on the floor, wiping the blood away from his lips. "Wuh-what are yuh-you going to do to me now?"

"Nothing for the moment. Though believe me I would love nothing more than to make you pay for this." Holmes knew he could have Thurston arrested for assisting in a kidnapping, but Bryson's warning of no outside help rang his his mind. He could not bring Thurston in without explaining what had happened. If Bryson found out-

Holmes' thoughts stopped cold. Bryson had been clever enough to hire someone Watson would trust enough to go into a secluded area and turn his back on without fear. So Bryson would also have to realize that Holmes would question Thurston-and that Thurston would break easily. Yet he had kept Thurston alive, why? Holmes had already planned his next destination to be the alley where Thurston had attacked Watson. He put his hand in his pocket, making sure the revolver he brought with him was still there. If he was about to walk into a trap he wanted to be ready. Then again, if Bryson had wanted to harm Holmes, why had he not done so at Baker Street? Just what was this man's game, anyway?

Turning his attention back to Thurston, Holmes hissed, "For your sake you had better pray that Watson gets out of this alive. You are to have nothing to do with him ever again. As forgiving as Watson is, I doubt he could ever forgive you for this. I certainly won't."

Holmes let himself out and jumped back in the cab. The driver was surprised when he was told to head back in the direction that he just came from. Holmes' nerves were a frayed mess after his encounter with Thurston. There were no words in any language to describe what he was feeling at that moment. He remained lost in his dark thoughts until the driver announced their arrival.

After telling the driver to wait, Holmes drew out his revolver, keeping his finger on the trigger as he entered the alley with all of his senses on full alert. He moved slowly, glancing around him cautiously. It appeared to be deserted. One of the wooden boards in the rubbish heap caught his eye. One end of it was stained with red. Without letting his guard down, Holmes knelt to pick it up. He felt a cold, sharp pain in the pit of his stomach, as though he had been stabbed with an icicle. The red stain was blood. _The board Thurston had struck Watson with_, Holmes thought, shivering. He then noticed that there was something tied to the opposite end, a folded piece of paper-a note. Holmes cursed himself for not seeing it when he had picked the board up, he could not afford to miss any kind of detail. He removed the note and inspected it. He had a sneaking suspicion it was from Bryson, and he was right:

_"Very well done Mr. Holmes! You are on the right tract so far. I suppose you are wondering why I had allowed Thurston to speak with you. I have to say that I knew you would be badly shaken after our interview so I decided I would just gift wrap the first clues for you until you could start thinking clearly again. But this will be the last time I help you. From now on, you are truly on your own. The good doctor sends his best wishes._

_-Bryson._

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**_To be continued, of course._**


	6. Chapter 6

_This chapter is dedicated to Velvet Green, who wanted to see some Watson torture. Enjoy!_

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Watson awoke in utter darkness, feeling cold and confused. His head was pounding and there was a sharp burning stinging pain in his left shoulder near his old war wound. He tried to turn his head to see where he was and was overcome by a wave of dizziness and nausea. "Lie still," instructed a voice in the darkness, seemingly coming from Watson's left. "You took quite a blow to the head," the voice continued, sounding silky and smooth. "Just try to rest, you'll be all right." Watson moaned softly and tried to do as he was told. He then became vaguely aware that someone was undoing the buttons of his shirt, and tried to wriggle away. "Shhh, shhh, easy now," the voice soothed. "Your shoulder is wounded as well and I need to remove your shirt to see how serious the damage is." _That makes sense_, Watson thought woozily. Where was he? A hospital? Maybe... He felt himself being lifted as whomever was with him pealed the shirt off of his shoulders. Another wave of dizziness overcame him, and as he slipped back into unconsciousness, he thought he heard the voice murmur, "Good, I did it right. I don't think you'll need stitches."

When Watson awakened again, it was still cold and completely dark. The pain in his skull had subsided to a dull ache, allowing him to think more coherently. As he became more alert, he realized with a twinge of horror that the reason it was so dark was because he was blindfolded-and the reason for his being so cold was because his shirt was missing. He could feel rough wood against his back. Watson's arms and legs were restrained and when he tried to move them he could hear the rattle of chains. His first instinct was to panic, and he began to struggle frantically, trying without success to break free. Eventually he gave up, gasping for breath. He tried to think, ignoring the pain flaring up in his head. The last thing he remembered was being at the club with Thurston. They had been playing pool, but Thurston was upset, distracted. He asked to speak with Watson in private and then-_what?_Watson could not remember. It was as though he were reading a novel that had lost some of its pages. One moment he and Thurston were in the club and the next Watson was... here, wherever here was. Watson was overcome with worry. What had happened to Thurston? Was he all right? Was he here too?

"Thurston?" Watson called out hesitently. The lack of a gag made him even more afraid. Whomever was keeping him here obviously had no fears of anybody hearing him scream. There was no response to his call. As he called out again, he heard a creak coming from somewhere above him, and a voice, the same one he half remembered hearing before said, "Ah, you're awake! How are you feeling?" It was a man's voice, cool and smooth with a faint trance of smugness.

"Thurston, where is he? What have you done with him?" Watson demanded, while knowing full well that he did not look the least bit threatening. Fear for his friend's safety was over ruling common sense. His captor responded with hysterical laughter. "You-you mean you don't remember?" he said through his giggles. "Oh-oh, do forgive me, but you have no idea how amusing this is! I was not expecting this at all! What a pleasant surprise!"

_Good lord, he's a stark raving lunatic,_ Watson thought, feeling himself get more frightened by the moment. This man's actions were completely unpredictable. Along with that fear though came anger. "Why? Why do you find it amusing?"

Having seemingly regained control of himself, the voice spoke again, "Oh, do not worry yourself over it. You might find out soon enough if your memory returns. In the meantime I suggest you had better get comfortable. You are going to be here for quite awhile. Feel free to make as much noise as you want, the neighbors won't complain." There was another creaking sound, then silence. Watson remained still for several moments, then when he was certain he was alone he tried to sit up. it took a great deal of effort, but eventually he was to raise himself into a semi-sitting position. The wall seemed to be made of the same material as the floor-rough wood. What was he supposed to do now? he guessed he had no choice but to wait for help. Holmes was bound to notice that Watson was missing and would come looking for him. Watson felt torn. On the one hand he wanted out of this place-_now_. But there was another part of him that worried for Holmes' safety. What if this man tried to harm Holmes? _Calm down,_ Watson tried to tell himself. _If Holmes can survive the likes of Moriarty and Culverton Smith, then he can survive anything._ He prayed that he was right.

Just then a new sound caught Watson's ears and he strained to listen. It sounded like song birds. Not just one or two either but an entire symphony of bird calls. It seemed to be coming from somewhere above him. _A clue,_ he thought to himself._ A clue to my whereabouts._ Even though he could not really do anything with that information, it did make him feel better to at least know something. Now, the amount of birds seemed to indicate that he was most likely out in the country. He sniffed at the air. There was a faint scent of dust and hay. A barn perhaps? His hope deflated slightly. If he was out in the country it would make it more difficult for Holmes to find him. There was a brief lull in the bird calls, and Watson heard a low train whistle. He could not figure out how far away it was though.

Watson must have dozed off for a moment because the next thing he knew somebody was grabbing him by the chin and trying to push something into his mouth. Watson tried to keep his teeth clenched and turn his head away. His captor's voice spoke directly into his right ear. "You need to eat something. It is not poisoned, doctor. Believe me, if I wanted to kill you, you would have been dead already." Watson could not argue with that logic. Still, it might be a slow acting poison... "Eat!" The captor yelled again, this time pressing on the lump behind Watson's ear. Watson yelped with pain and his captor shoved the food into his mouth, then held his hand over Watson's lips so he could not spit it out. It was sweet tasting, like a biscuit. Watson held it in his mouth for several moments, then when the hand was not removed he forced himself to chew and swallow. "There now, feel better? Here, you should have some water to wash it down." Watson, completely humiliated at this treatment came up with a foolish idea. He obediently took some water in his mouth, but only pretended to swallow. When he felt the breath of his captor in his face he spat the water out, feeling a thrill of pride when the man cried out in surprise and disgust. The pride was short lived, because almost immediately afterward Watson was struck in the mouth so sharply his head snapped back. He tasted blood, his lip seemed to have split and one of his teeth had come loose.

His captor grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head forward. "Now, I thought I was being a gracious host by offering you the basic nessesities at normal intervals. If you are going to behave like that though, then maybe you don't deserve to be fed when you need it. I don't think I'll give you anymore food and water today. I will wait until you can remember your manners." He shoved Watson away. "One final warning, if you try that again I will _sew your mouth closed._ Understand?" Watson nodded. "Good man." There was the sound of footsteps moving away from him, then the creaking sound, and Watson was alone once more.

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**_Oh, UGH! I can't believe I just wrote that! To be continued, obviously. I think I'll just stick with Holmes if that's all right with you guys. Ugh again._**


	7. Chapter 7

_And now we mercifully return to Holmes._

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Holmes made a complete investigation of the alley, but there were no other clues other than the board and the note. He had tried to examine the note more closely but the wind began to pick up, almost tearing the note from his hands. _Now what?_He thought. The trail had suddenly gone cold. Holmes knew that he could not remain in that alley all day. There was nothing else to find here, he might as well return to Baker Street and get a better analysis of the note. Despite Bryson's talk of "gift wraping" Holmes hardly believed that Bryson would be keeping Watson in any of these buildings. Bryson would not have made things _that _easy. Bryson was arrogant, but he was not stupid. Holmes could only pray that the note would provide a clearer idea of who this man _really _was, and maybe even a better idea of Watson's whereabouts. The thought of trying to pry more information from Thurston crossed Holmes' mind, but it had not been all that long ago that he had left. The maid had been home, and if she saw Thurston's injuries from Holmes' first visit she would already be suspicious. His returning might bring on unwanted questions. So, he would analyze the note to see what more information he could find, then if that trail started to go cold he would return to Thurston's. Even though he was not returning to Baker Street completely empty handed Holmes still felt a pang of guilt at returning without Watson at his side. He had never been more aware of the empty seat next to him in the cab as he had been today.

Once he had arrived he darted up the stairs to the sitting room. He began to examine the note carefully. The paper was of an expensive quality, but it had a peculiar odor, like some sort of animal. Not from a stray animal in the alley either, there were also faint traces of the scent of hay, or perhaps straw. The writer was left-handed, and the writing itself was smooth and fluid, meaning the author had not made any attempt to disguise his hand. Bryson seemed egocistal enough in his personality to write the note himself, but then again he might have had somebody else write it for him. The animal scent was what arrested Holmes' attention. Bryson, or perhaps somebody else, worked closely with animals. If this letter was written in the same place where they were holding Watson, then perhaps he was in a barn or a stable or some such thing. Holmes shook his head. He needed more data before he could form any real theories. Still, the animal smell was an important clue.

The clock downstairs began to chime, causing Holmes to almost jump out of his skin. He took slow deep breathes. The clock always chimed at the quarter hour, it had been doing it everyday for years. He had actually ceased being aware of it before, but now every sound, every movement left him on edge. He shook his head. His theory about the softer emotions crippling one's ability to reason were proving to be all to accurate. He took out his watch and glanced at the time. _2:15. _Holmes was shocked. It felt as if it had been years since Bryson had shown up at Baker Street to make his challenge, with Watson's possessions in tow. _Two weeks,_Holmes thought. Bryson had given him two weeks, and now day one was almost over with only the slightest amount of progress. He snarled as he set the note on the chemical table. He was _not_ going to give up, not this quickly.

There was a knock on the door. Before Holmes could say anything Mrs. Hudson poked her head in. "I do beg your pardon," she said, "but Inspector Lestrade wishes to speak with you. I had told him you were already engaged with another matter..." Holmes felt a flare of alarm. Bryson had said no outside help. If he had agents watching the house and they saw Lestrade enter-"Tell him again Mrs. Hudson! This is a most vital case, a matter of life and death. I do not have time for his petty little problems." Mrs. Hudson nodded and then looked around the room curiously. Holmes could read the question in her eyes and kicked himself for not coming up with a story to explain Watson's absence. He had no idea what to say. "Watson is still at the club," he said finally. Mrs. Hudson frowned. "No, no, we did not have a falling out," Holmes said hastily, reading her thoughts. "He was just feeling a little under the weather and thought it would be best to stay where he was." Mercifully, she seemed to accept this and left.

Holmes glanced over at Watson's desk. The papers upon it had been sent into disarray by Bryson's rifling through them earlier. Holmes went over to set them back in their proper order. Watson would want his papers to be organized, Holmes reasoned. As he was arranging them he took a quick look at the contents. These were the notes from the Baskervile case. Watson was certainly going to make dramatic work out of this one. Holmes felt a lump rise in his throat and his vision began to blur. He had always mocked Watson for his writings, complaining about his insistence of focusing on the romantic instead of sticking with the rigid facts. Holmes swore that if-no,_when_, he saved Watson he would never make any rude comments about the man's writings ever again. All he wanted was to have Watson sitting here scribbling away as he always had. Holmes angrily wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. As he did, one of the papers fell to the floor. When he knelt to pick it up, something else caught his eye. It was a small yellow feather, like a canary's. Bryson must have tracked it in. How could he not have noticed it? Was this just another "gift-wrapped" clue? Even if it was, Holmes still felt a small twinge of hope. Perhaps Bryson had gotten over confident in his own arrogance. Between this and the animal smell in the note, Holmes might be making some actual progress after all.

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**_To be continued..._**


	8. Chapter 8

_Back to this story. Thank you as always for all the reviews, you have no idea how much they mean to me!_

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Three days, it had now been three days since Bryson had made his challenge. In that time Holmes had not slept, nor had he eaten very much. The idea of sleeping when Watson was God knows where being subjected to God knows what was enough to keep Holmes awake. Of course he had to eat at least a _little _something, in order to keep Mrs. Hudson from starting in on her mothering routine. He also was forced to admit that what little food he did eat was keeping his head clear, at least for now. The lack of sleep though... that was starting to affect him. He remembered what Watson had once told him about sleep deprivation, if a person goes too long without sleep they may begin to hallucinate. Watson had first hand experience with that due to his service in Afghanistan. Holmes wearily sank into his chair. He needed to make sure that any clues he found actually existed, but how could he sleep with Watson missing? How could he? He felt so tired though...

Holmes combed his fingers through his hair. It was also getting increasingly difficult to come up with explanations for Watson's absence. He was half wishing he had told Mrs. Hudson that he and Watson actually did have a falling out, but then she would have been pestering him to make amends. Though she usually left him to his own devices, when it came to his friendship with Watson she almost always spoke her mind. She knew something was amiss, Holmes could tell. She never said anything but it was written in her eyes. Apparently his emotional state was even affecting his ability to lie convincingly.

He leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyes to close for just a moment. He had spent the past two days tracking down songbird suppliers with no luck, so apparently it was a private job. Nearly the entire flat was buried under his files which he had tossed about haphazardly, searching desperately for any information about a Bryson(assuming that was even his real name) and any other crook from his past that used songbirds or other animals. All he could find about animals so far were Roylott's swamp addler and Stapleton's hound. Both of those men were dead, and they did not seem to have any relatives who would want vengeance. There was nothing to be found about songbirds. Holmes thought it would be the sort of thing he would remember. Watson would have been able to find the file, he always did have a gift for finding things so easily among the clutter. Of course if he were here, there would be no need to find the stupid information in the first place.

_Perhaps I should try to squeeze more information out of Thurston,_Holmes thought. That was, of course, assuming the coward had not already fled for the Continent to escape both Holmes and Bryson. Holmes gritted his teeth. Thurston feared him more than he did Bryson, part of the reason why he had broken so easily. Holmes still could not understand how someone Watson trusted so deeply could betray him like this. He decided he would go to Thurston's right now and do whatever it took to make that little Judas talk; but his body would not obey his commands to move, it was as if he had become fused to the chair. He was so tired...

_There was a knock on the sitting room door. Rousing himself, Holmes called out, "Come in." Mr. Peter Bryson stood in the doorway. He had a paper bag tucked underneath his left arm. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, so good to see you again," he said smoothly. Holmes leapt to his feet. "You! What on earth do you want?!" Bryson smiled coldly and held out the paper bag. Holmes eyed it with suspicion, his heart pounding. "I have an item which has recently come into my possession, would you be so kind as to look at it?" Holmes tried to fold his arms across his chest, but his hands moved as if they had a will of their own, and they took the bag from Bryson. Reaching inside, he felt something warm and soft, like hair. When he pulled the item out Holmes screamed in terror. It was a severed head._

Holmes jerked upright in the chair, gasping for breath. Mrs. Hudson was kneeling next to him, her hand resting on his shoulder. "I was just about to wake you, but it looks like you did that yourself," she said softly, rubbing his arm. "Doctor Watson is in serious trouble is he not?" At the shocked expression on Holmes' face she said soothingly, "Just now, when you woke up you called out his name." Holmes shivered and leaned back in the chair. Outside the window darkness had fallen. How long had he been asleep? How much time had he lost? He snatched the watch from his pocket. He had been asleep for seven hours.

With a growl he leapt from the chair and made for the door. "Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson called out to him. "Do eat something before you go, it won't do Doctor Watson any good if you starve yourself." She went to the cupboard and took out an apple. "Here, you can eat and travel at the same time." She patted his arm. "Don't give up yet, Mr. Holmes, and please, be careful." Holmes nodded as he left the flat. Unable to find a cab he began walking toward Thurston's house. At least the sleep, nightmarish though it had been, had cleared his head a little and he was able to keep all of his senses on full alert.

Once he arrived at Thurston's he saw a large crowd gathered outside. _Oh, no, now what?_ Holmes wondered, breaking into a run. When he caught sight of Lestrade he quickly ducked behind the corner. Peering cautiously through the bushes he watched the inspector converse with Thurston's maid. Then there was movement at the door. Holmes felt his heart sink when he saw what it was. Two men were bringing out a body draped in a bloodstained white sheet.

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**_To be continued, obviously._**


	9. Chapter 9

_Here's the next chapter. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!_

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Holmes clenched his fists. Thurston was under that sheet, there was no one else it could be. Holmes cursed himself for not getting more information from Thurston when he had the chance. His mind suddenly froze. The maid knew of his previous visit, and more likely than not knew of the injuries he had inflicted upon Thurston at the time. She might tell Lestrade-she would have to would she not? Especially if Thurston's death was murder. Was it? Had Bryson gone back to silence Thurston, believing his usefulness to be over? Or perhaps out of fear Thurston would confess to the police? It was also possible that Thurston had committed suicide out of remorse, for he at least had had enough humanity to feel guilty for what he had done. Maybe there was a suicide note? How would Holmes be able to see it without rousing suspicion? That brought Holmes' mind back to his original question. If the maid _did_mention his visit, then Lestrade would want to ask Holmes some questions. If Holmes did not cooperate, Lestrade would get suspicious. But if Bryson found out that Holmes was talking to the police, Watson would be killed. If Thurston's death was murder, than Bryson might very well be trying to force Holmes to talk to the police. Holmes snarled. He had often told Watson that he could not form theories without facts, that he could not make bricks without clay. Unfortunately, in order to get the clay he would have to gamble with Watson's life. _What am I supposed to do?_ Holmes wondered. _What in God's name am I supposed to do? _

Holmes strained his ears to hear the conversation between Lestrade and the maid. The latter was crying so hard it was difficult to understand what she was saying. Lestrade was trying his very best to comfort her, without much success. Holmes distinctly heard his own name and paid even closer attention. It seemed that after his visit Thurston had locked himself in his bedroom and refused to come out for any reason. Any efforts on the part of the servants to get him to come out were greeted with harsh words or loud sobs. Finally, about an hour ago there was a muffled bang. When the servants broke the door down they found Thurston lying on the floor, revolver in hand, and half of his skull blown away. The windows were also locked from the inside. There was absolutely no way for a person to go in or out without attracting attention. Suicide seemed to be the only solution.

_Lestrade will still want to talk to me,_ Holmes thought. _If only to find out if I knew of any reason why this man would take his own life._Holmes felt his eyes begin to burn. Even though he clearly had not pulled the trigger, he had obviously said something to Thurston to affect him badly enough to make him want to take his own life. He would have to talk to Lestrade, he had no choice. Otherwise that man would never leave him alone. All he could do was pray that Bryson would not find out. _I am sorry, Watson. I am so very sorry. _Holmes stood up and slowly made his way to Lestrade.

When the inspector caught sight of Holmes, he gave a slight gasp. "Why Mr. Holmes, I was just about to notify you. My God sir, if you don't mind my saying so you look like death himself." Holmes gave a slight shrug at this, not entirely certain what he should say, and upset that his acting skills were beginning to fail him. He had to get that cold mask back in place, or Lestrade would ask the wrong questions. "Thurston was a friend of Watson's, they used to play billiards together at the club," Holmes began, uncertain of how to give away the smallest amount of information possible. He needed to explain what he was doing in the neighborhood at this hour in the first place. "Yes, of course, I believe one of the help had made mention of that fact," said Lestrade. Addressing the maid he said, "Would you be so kind as to excuse us for a moment?" The maid nodded and Lestrade led Holmes over to the other side of the yard.

"Now then, do you care to explain how you got here so quickly? I know you receive word of strange doings rather quickly but even you could not have known about this that soon."

Holmes took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. "Watson has gone missing. I had found out that Thurston was the last to see him, so I went to ask him a few questions. That was also the purpose of my first visit. I had come back here tonight hoping that he might have remembered something more. I knew he had been upset, but I never imagined that he would take his life. You are quite certain that it was suicide? "

Lestrade nodded. "The weapon was in a death grip in his hand. Took our surgeon a bit of time to pry the weapon out of his grasp."

Holmes' voice dropped to a whisper. "Perhaps I had been a bit too... forceful in my inquiries."

Lestrade gave him a curious look. "Would this have anything to do with the life or death matter your landlady had mentioned to me?"

Holmes nodded. "I cannot tell you anymore than that Lestrade, for a person's life is still hanging in the balance. I am already taking an enormous risk by speaking with you. I have already got enough to worry about without having the Yard suspecting me of wrongdoing, so my hand was forced. I beg you not to ask me anymore questions, or attempt to contact me in anyway. When all of this is over I will be happy to explain everything. In the meantime you _must_ trust me. Please," Holmes' voice shook. "Give me your word that you will leave me alone."

Lestrade stared at the shaking detective for such a long moment Holmes thought he would go insane. Finally the inspector nodded. "Very well then. If it is that serious a situation I will not trouble you. But I _will_ expect an explanation when this over, do I have your word on that?"

Holmes nearly went limp with relief. "Yes, yes, you have my word. Thank you Lestrade." He turned and forced himself to walk away in as casual a manner he could manage. He was shaking again, so hard it was a miracle his legs were supporting him. He hailed a cab and rode back to Baker Street, his heart pounding against his ribs. When he entered the building he saw that a small envelope had been pushed under the door. _No, _Holmes thought, _he could not have found out that quickly..._ with shaking hands he knelt to pick it up. There was the same animal smell on the envelope as there had been on the note in the alley. Holmes gingerly opened the envelope with his pocket knife. When he read the contents of the letter his stomach lurched.

_I told you not to talk to the police! Now, I realize that everybody makes mistakes sometimes. Perhaps you simply forgot. So I will let it slide this one time. However, if you do it again Watson will be providing nourishment for our city's rat population, understood?_

_-Bryson._

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**_To be continued, obviously._**


	10. Chapter 10

_Here's the next chapter. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!_

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Holmes collapsed on the foot of the stairs, staring at the note in horror. The handwriting was identical to the one on the first note._ How,_ Holmes' mind screamed,_ How could he have possibly found out so quickly? _Bryson might be a demon in the metaphorical sense, but he was still a mortal being. Ergo, he must have had somebody following Holmes around. Perhaps it was they who wrote the letter and not Bryson himself, for again, how else would the news get back to him so fast? Unless of course it was Bryson doing the following-but what did that mean for Watson then? Holmes cursed himself. How could he have failed to notice he was being followed? He should have known he was, how else would Bryson make sure Holmes abided by the rules of his "little game"? He would have to keep a sharper eye out for any suspicious activity. So far Bryson had complete control over the situation, Holmes had to gain an advantage somehow. If he could catch whomever was spying on him-but what would happen to Watson? It might endanger his life all the more. Still, there had to be something Holmes could do, _Something. _Holmes took slow, deep breaths, trying to get his mind to clear. This was exactly what Bryson wanted, for Holmes to lose control with fear. He could not let Bryson win.

Once his mind had settled down a little Holmes climbed the seventeen steps back to the sitting room. When he opened the door he saw that Mrs. Hudson was on the floor, looking through the papers that were strewn about. She was not trying to tidy up, she was searching for something. Holmes cleared his throat to get her attention. He did not want her involved in this. What if Bryson went after her next? There was still that warning of no outside help ringing in Holmes' head. He had already jeopardised Watson's life by talking to Lestrade, what if Bryson or his spies found out Mrs. Hudson was helping Holmes? Holmes shook his head violently. There was no way Bryson could be aware of what was happening in here, was there? _This case is making you paranoid,_ Holmes thought. Mrs. Hudson was kneeling on the floor, and the blinds were drawn. No one could see in.

Mrs. Hudson paused in what she was doing to look up at Holmes. "No luck, then?" she whispered when she saw the expression on his face. "I am sorry. What is it exactly you are trying to find among these papers? Maybe I can help you find it. There should not be any harm in my simply sorting through papers, is there? After all, the answers already belong to you."

Holmes poured himself a brandy, trying to settle his nerves. "My opponent seems to have a fondness for animals," he said softly. "I can smell it on the notes he left. I had also found a canary feather under Watson's desk. Watson did not leave it there."

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip thoughtfully. "Hmm.. well, let's see. You have not found what you were looking for so far. Perhaps this is the first crime your 'opponent' has committed?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, this fellow knows far too well what he is doing. If he were a novice he would have made more mistakes." Despite the nervousness he still felt at the thought of discovery, he had to admit it was something of a comfort to finally have somebody to voice his thoughts to. There was still a large weight on his shoulders, but it felt at least slightly less heavy than it had before.

"How often did you keep track of crimes in London during your uh, absence?" Mrs. Hudson asked now. "I know Doctor Watson had said something about you keeping track of the activities of that Moriarty gang, but other than that-"

_Of course,_ Holmes realized. He _had _asked Mycroft to keep him aware of the activities of the Moriarty gang(namely Moran), but had not really paid enough mind to crimes that did not seem to have any connection to them, save for a passing curiosity. Watson had taken up work as a police surgeon during that time, perhaps he had stumbled upon something. Holmes swallowed hard. That meant he would have to go searching through Watson's journals. There would be personal information there, in addition to any clues Holmes might find. Watson had been going through emotional turmoil at that time with not only the "death" of his dearest friend, but the death of his wife as well. Holmes tried to steel himself. He knew that Watson was currently far worse off now than he was then, and that looking through the journals might be the only way to find an answer. The only way to possibly save Watson's life. He carefully made his way through the papers back to the door.

"Where are you going now?" Mrs. Hudson called after him.

Holmes explained his plan to check Watson's journals. "He keeps them upstairs in his room," Holmes' voice shook slightly as he tried to smile. "He told me he did it to keep them from being buried under all the clutter."

When he got to Watson's room he turned up the gas. The journals were on the bookshelf against the wall. Holmes took down one notebook at a time, flipping through the pages until he finally came across his supposed "death" at Reichenbach. He carried that journal and four others with him to Watson's bed. Holmes sat at the foot of it, reading about Watson's grief. There was a rawness there that had not been in his later publishing of The Final Problem. Holmes knew that he did not have much time, and that he needed to skim ahead until he got to the point where Watson became a police surgeon, but his eyes were glued to the page. To think he had caused his friend to suffer so much... Holmes could not help but notice that Watson never lost that poetic style his published writings had. Even when the words were his own private thoughts, they still possessed a romantic nature. These writings were Watson's _voice_, he was not pandering down to popular tastes at all, he never had been. _I am sorry, Watson. If I had known I would not have mocked you, well, not **as much **anyway,_Holmes was forced to admit. The brief moment of amusement was enough to break the spell, and Holmes flipped ahead in the journal. "Hmph," There was nothing else to be found in this one. With an exasperated sigh Holmes picked up the next volume.

Holmes had to look through two more journals before he finally found what he was looking for. It seemed that there was a series of murders in London's East End. Not an unusual occurance tragically, but Watson had thought something seemed strange about the victims. It seemed that a canary feather was found with each of the bodies. When Watson tried to point this out to the Yard he was scornfully told that in at least three of those instances the victims owned canaries and thus it would stand to reason that a feather would be found. Each of the victims had died in a completely different manner, came from different professions, and both genders had been killed. Had the crimes been committed by the same person, the Yard insisted, then the victims would have all been similar and would have died in the same way. At any rate Watson's job was to figure out when the victim died and how, not to focus his attention on silly little things like bird feathers. Just because he was the friend of the late Sherlock Holmes did not give him the right to put on airs.

Holmes snarled when he read that last line. He remembered seeing Watson's theories being brushed aside before during the Adair case. He thought it was numbness brought on by grief that caused that lack of reaction in his friend. But maybe it was because Watson had grown accustomed to that happening? He went back to reading. It seemed as if Lestrade and Gregson in a rare moment of peace had sided with Watson and decided to "humor" Watson by checking out songbird suppliers in the area. The only one near the place where the murders occurred was one Andrew Wilson. It turned out that this gentleman had supplied birds to the three murdered bird owners, but he did not know anything else about these people, other than making sure his birds were going to a good home. Lestrade and Gergson could not find anything suspicious about the man, on the contrary he seemed to be a perfectly charming and respectable gentleman. _Moriarty could be quite charming too,_ Holmes thought, and Watson had apparently agreed. He had felt leery about this Wilson fellow, certain that something was amiss. It just seemed to be too much of a coincidence that three of Wilson's customers would wind up dead. At any rate, there was nothing else Watson could do. After awhile, the crimes seemed to have stopped-or at least canary feathers stopped appearing near the corpses. It was the description of the final victim though which turned Holmes' blood to ice.

The man had clearly been tortured for several days before he had died from starvation. No one had reported him missing because he had lived alone and developed a reputation for not showing up for work for days at a time. He had lost five jobs in that fashion. There were several small knife wounds all over his body, but the most prominent wound was a long vicious gash running down his left shoulder. Holmes' mind flashed back to Watson's frock coat. It too, had a bloodstained gash near the left shoulder. That meant that the person who had taken Watson was the same person who had committed these crimes. Peter Bryson was really _Andrew Wilson!_

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**_To be continued, obviously._**


	11. Chapter 11

_Yay! I have 115 reviews! Thank you so very very much! Okay, I know I said that I wasn't going to visit with Watson again, but, well, I changed my mind. Needless to say this won't be a very happy chapter._

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Watson groaned softly. How long had he been here by now anyway? It was starting to feel like forever. There was no real sense of time in this place, the blindfold kept him in constant darkness. He had no way of knowing if it was day or night, or how many days and nights had passed. The only sounds were the birds singing their demented chorus and the occasional and very faint train whistle which seemed to be mocking him. His left shoulder was burning, as if it had been doused in vitriol. Watson was pretty sure it was infected. He shivered as he tried to draw his knees up to his chest. His shoulder was the only part of him that felt any kind of warmth. The rest of him was cold, almost numb. His stomach ached from lack of food. After his captor had said he would deprive Watson of food and water Watson had expected that he would be left alone for an extended period. He was wrong. His captor made regular appearances and though Watson never got the man's name, he became very familiar with him.

It was always the same person. That smooth, silky voice that could turn cold and harsh when angered. He smelled too, a strange mix of animal and really cheap tabacco. He had a habit of getting right in Watson's face when speaking to him, and his breath felt hot against Watson's skin. His hands were large and rough, with slightly long nails. He would often run his fingers through Watson's hair, petting him as if he were a cat. There was something else he always had with him-a knife.

At one point during a "visit" Watson had found himself in trouble. His bladder felt as if it was about to burst and he did not know which scenario was worse-asking his captor for permission to relieve himself or going in his pants. He ultimately did not have to choose. His captor had apparently noticed his squirming, and grabbed Watson by the arm, yanking him to his feet. Watson had then been half dragged to the other side of his prison, which was not a large space. "I suppose you would have to go by now, wouldn't you?" The silky voice had said. There was a rattle of chains as Watson's hands were released. Before he had had a chance to react he was seized by the back of the neck and the cold sharp steel of a blade had been pressed to his cheek. "I know, I know. You desire privacy for such an act, but I can't run the risk of you removing that blindfold," his captor said, his breath tickling Watson's ear. "You understand, don't you? Believe me, you would be far worse off if I made you go in your pants." Watson had never felt so humiliated in all of his life, but what choice did he have? After he had finished his hands were once more chained behind him and he was half thrown back to his old spot on the floor, landing on his injured shoulder.

This experience had been repeated at least twice more since. The last time Watson had found himself almost begging for the restraints on his wrists to be adjusted. "Surely you can fix them so I cannot bring my hands all the way to my face. I would not be able to remove the blindfold then." His captor had said he would think about it, if Watson remembered to behave like a "good guest." So far, the restraints had yet to be adjusted.

Watson kept trying to hold on to happy memories, it might be the only way to keep his sanity in this place. He thought of his late wife Mary and her warm laugh and sparkling eyes. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine himself in Baker Street, with Holmes sitting in his chair by the fire playing beautiful music on his violin. Where was Holmes right now? Was he still looking for Watson? He must be, he was probably turning all of London upside down in his search. The inability to measure time made it hard for Watson to know how far along in his search Holmes was. Watson half expected to hear Holmes' voice at any moment, but it never came.

Watson was jarred back to the here and now by a swift blow to the stomach. He tried to curl up against the pain, but hands seized his ankles and dragged him away from the wall. Then he felt himself being pinned to the floor by his captor who was now lying on top of him. Watson could feel the knife lightly tracing his collarbone. "Rules exist for a reason, don't you agree, doctor?" Watson did not know if he was supposed to answer or if the question had been rhetorical and he was supposed to keep quiet. He chose the latter, which turned out to be a mistake. The blade sliced into his skin, making him cry out in pain. "I asked you a question!" his captor spat, removing the blade for a moment. Watson sucked in air through his teeth as his eyes welled up in pain. "Yes," he choked out. He could not cry, he could not give this creature the satisfaction of breaking him.

"And when rules are broken, there are consequences, right?" the voice continued as if nothing had happened. Watson quickly nodded. Obedience was not surrender, it was survival. The threat of having his mouth sewn shut had not left him. He had to try and do whatever this monster wanted. "Good," purred the voice as the knife was moved to Watson's forehead, near his hairline. The knife slowly and methodically cut into Watson's face, sliding down toward the blindfold. Watson tried to pull away, but his head was being held in place and he could not move it. What was this person talking about? Watson had not broken any rules, had he? What had he done wrong? "I am glad we are in agreement. If you don't mind my saying so," the captor said, seemingly switching topics as he continued cutting, "you look nothing like the illustrations in Strand magazine. Has Mr. Paget even met you? The only thing he got right was the moustache." The blade finally came to a stop just above the blindfold and was removed.

His captor got up and dragged Watson back to his old spot against the wall. He lightly ran his fingers through Watson's hair, lifting a few strands away from the scalp and twisting them between his fingers. "If you ever get out of here, you simply must send Mr. Paget a photo of yourself so he can draw you correctly next time." He laughed. "The key word, of course, is _if._"

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**_Hey, I told you this would not be a pleasant chapter. To be continued, and we will definitely stick with Holmes this time._**


	12. Chapter 12

_All these reviews are more valuable to me than all the money in the world! (Seriously)_

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For what felt like the first time since this whole nightmare started, Holmes allowed himself to feel an incredible sense of hope, even as it was marred with horror. He had a _lead_a real honest to goodness lead that had not been planted by "Bryson", or as he was now revealed to be, Wilson. He knew his enemy's real name, even had an address. Unfortunately, it was an old one. According to Watson's journal Wilson had moved out not long after being questioned by the police. Then there was the knowledge that Wilson's last known victim had been tortured before his death. Of course Holmes knew that Watson was not being kept in the lap of luxury all this time, but still, he now felt even more desperate than before. Even if he did find Watson alive, who knew what sort of shape he would be in? He could be horribly maimed or-

_Stop that at once!_ Holmes scolded himself. _You have a lead, now you must follow it._Wilson's old address was on the East End, near the docks. Holmes would have to don a disguise to avoid recognition. A rough dock worker should do the trick. As he gathered up Watson's journals he glanced toward the window. The gray light of dawn was just beginning to appear over the rooftops. Holmes swallowed hard. He had already lost four days, now there were only ten left._ Don't give up, Watson. Please do not give up!_Shaking himself free of his thoughts, he returned the journals to their places on the shelf. He glanced at the wall mirror. He had not shaved in days, and his grey/green eyes were slightly sunken in. Even wearing his own clothes he had a rough and dangerous look about him. He hoped his acting skills would not betray him. Just then he remembered something. Wilson had hired an agent-or perhaps he himself-to follow Holmes to keep up to date of his doings. He knew that Wilson was familiar with his gifts of disguise, he had said as much in their first meeting, so that would probably mean he would followed now, too. He had already planned on carrying his revolver with him, for the East End was not a place one wanted to go to unarmed, if they could help it, but now he would most definitely be on his guard. This time, he would try to catch his pursuer in the act. He could only pray that it would help save Watson's life, and not get him killed.

Holmes returned to the sitting room to find Mrs. Hudson tidying up. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked. Holmes nodded as he went into his room to get ready. "I must be on my way, Mrs. Hudson, I shall be back as soon as I'm able."

It took about an hour to finish preparing his disguise, and it seemed to take two more to reach Wilson's old address. At least Holmes was able to come up with a cover story in that time. He did not have the energy to come up with something on the spur of the moment.

He pounded on the door with his fist. "Open up, I say! I need a word with you." A rather large woman with gray hair and a mole on her left cheek answered the door.

"Wot is yur problem?" She snarled. "You've got any idea wot time it is?"

"I am looking for that blighter that sold me a sick bird." Holmes did not have to work hard to keep the disgust in his voice. "I got it for my little niece, see? Real sweet little girl she is. Since I'm her favorite uncle I thought I'd surprise her with a pet bird. The fool who lives here told me his birds were real strong and healthy, should live a long time. Well, I had to go off to sea not long after I gave my niece her new pet, and it wasn't until I got back here that I learned the bird had died the very next mornin'! Now you best bring him out here so I can have a word with him!"

The woman shook her head. "If yer talking about that Wilson fool, I had to throw him out. Blasted birds of his making such a racket at such odd hours, and the smell! I might not 'ave minded much if he'd at least 'ave taken care of them poor creatures, but he didn' even do that! Imagine, he was suppose to be such an expert too. Some expert, I was the one who had to feed his stupid pets."

"You won't know where he went off to, do you? I have a score to settle with him. My poor little niece was so upset, she refused to come out of her room for two whole days. I won't let nobody get away with hurting her, all right? I have no quarrel with you." _And I certainly won't let anyone get away with hurting Watson,_ Holmes thought to himself, relieved that his act seemed to be working for the most part.

The woman scowled. "Never did give me a new address. Wish he had, I still gettin' complaints from former customers like yerself. Sorry for not bein' of more help."

Holmes felt his shoulders sag. Now what was he supposed to do? This woman was obviously telling the truth, she clearly had very little love for her former tenant. Holmes was going to have to think of something else.

"Thank you anyway, sorry I troubled you." Holmes turned to walk away. As he did, the landlady called after him.

"If ye ever do find him, give him a box on the ears for me."

Holmes nearly smiled at that. He made his way down the street, trying to stay alert to any signs of trouble. He could not see or hear anything out of the ordinary, but he knew that did not necessarily mean no one was following him. He could be quite invisible himself when the need arose. Then again, maybe once they had seen him start to converse with Wilson's old landlady they went to report their findings. There had to be some way to catch them in act, some way...

A sudden loud crash and a loud voice shouting "Watch where ya goin' you bloody idiot!" yanked Holmes from his thoughts. He looked behind him at the house he had just passed. A very drunk, very muscular gentleman was swaying over the sprawled form of another gentleman, whom he had obviously run into. The latter began trying to stand up. When he caught sight of Holmes, he took off in the opposite direction. Holmes ran off after him. This had to be the man who was following him, why else would he run away when Holmes looked at him? Holmes nodded his head in thanks to the drunken fellow, who was still stumbling about.

The former pursuer was clearly not used to being the pursued. Perhaps he was still rattled that he had been discovered, and in such a manner too! He made the fatal error of ducking into an alley. It turned out to be a dead end.

"There is no where left for you to run," Holmes told him in his own voice. The hired hand braced himself against the wall. "I know you were hired by Peter Bryson, or perhaps he used his own name of Andrew Wilson. Ah, I see the recognition in your eyes. Then you must know where he is."

The other man shook his head. "Come now," said Holmes smoothly, removing his revolver from his pocket. "There must be some place where you report your findings, maybe by sending a wire, hmm? You are not leaving here until you tell me where I can find the man who hired you."

His prisoner smirked. "Boss said you won't hurt me because he would hurt your friend if you did."

Holmes lashed out, striking the man with the butt end of his revolver. "If that were so, then pray tell me why you ran when I saw you. If my friend's survival was so dependant upon your safe return you would have stayed where you were, knowing that I was powerless to touch you." Holmes knew that he was taking a huge gamble by doing this, but it might be the only chance he had to save Watson. He pinned his now terrified prisoner to the wall, the barrel of the revolver pressed to the man's skull. "Tell me how you contact your boss with what you know and _maybe_ I will let you walk away."

The man swallowed hard. "We met at the races. He told me all I had to do was follow you around and make sure you didn't talk to anyone you weren't supposed to."

"I am losing patience, tell me how you contact him."

"U-usually I s-send him a wire," the man stuttered, yelping in pain when Holmes pressed the revolver even harder against his skull.

"Very well then, you are going to send him another wire, and you will tell him exactly what I want you say."

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**_To be continued..._**


	13. A Note From The Author

_Hey everybody. I bet you were wondering what happened to me and why I haven't updated in so long. The reason is I had to go to the hospital for a major operation. It was so major they had to separate it into two parts. I have been in the hospital these past three weeks. I had a tumor wrapped around my pelvis that needed to be removed. It was a BIG tumor too. The doctors got it all out, and no, it is NOT cancerous(thank God). So obviously I've been a bit distracted to say the least. I am now out of the hospital. Due to the placement of the tumor some of the nerves in my right foot were severed so I currently have very little feeling in it and am wearing a brace. I also need a walker in order to get around. The second part of the operation required being cut open in the front so I currently have staples in my stomach. I realise that this is probably too much information, but I need you to understand why I have not updated in so long and why it will still be a long time before I'll be able to update again. I want to thank everybody who has left reviews for this story so far, I am really delighted that you enjoy it so much. I promise that I will update eventually, and that I will finish this story, it's just going to take a long time._


	14. Chapter 14

_I've left my author's note explaining my long hiatus up because if I had done chapter replacement this story would have remained buried on page four or where ever it was it had ended up. Thank you to everybody who sent me get well wishes, you really helped me feel so much better. I also want to thank KCS and bcbdrums for helping me get through a nasty case of writer's block. In case you haven't noticed I am a modern day american so I apologise for any mistakes I've made._

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In the excitement of capturing Wilson's lackey, Holmes had not had time to formulate a plan. Now he was desperately trying to figure out exactly what his next move should be. He had gained an enormous advantage and he could not afford to bungle things now. Not when he was so close. The fool could have been lying about communicating with Wilson merely by wire-that note after Holmes' forced conversation with Lestrade had appeared rather quickly-seemingly too quickly for the man to send a wire, have Wilson arrive at Baker Street and shove the note under the door and be out of sight by Holmes' return. Perhaps this lackey had been to the prison in person at some point and it was he who was responsible for the notes. Then again, maybe Wilson had anticipated that Thurston would commit suicide, and since Holmes would have been among the last to see him alive Lestrade would have to speak with Holmes. Holmes shook his head. The idea sounded utterly foolish, but the fact that Wilson had been able to predict Holmes' first visit-and Thurston's weakness-made Holmes wonder. If Wilson could predict the first series of events, was it truly such a leap in logic to assume he could figure out the second as well? Or perhaps Wilson had more than one minion. Just how much hired help did this man have anyway?

If this lackey was telling the truth about only communicating with Wilson by wire, what exactly was Holmes supposed to do with him? If he let him go, the lackey would no doubt report to Wilson and tell him what happened. But if Holmes turned him over to the police, he would have to explain to Lestrade what was going on. Holmes did not feel certain it was safe enough to break his silence completely just yet. Though the lackey had fled when he had been caught, he still could be telling the truth about Watson being harmed if the agent did not report back. What was the safest choice? Holmes was going to have to make up his mind soon.

Holmes' head was starting to hurt from his mind going in circles. He still did not have enough information to form theories with. Holmes roughly began searching his prisoner. If the man _had_ been lying about communicating with Wilson only through wire than there might be some evidence on his person that proved it. He knew that Wilson had chosen his last helper very carefully. and no doubt had done the same with this one. If that drunken fellow had not crashed into the minion, Holmes might never have caught him. Wilson could not predict everything, and maybe this sudden fluke would increase Holmes' advantage even more. _Be careful,_ Holmes warned himself._ You must not allow yourself to become overconfident._

"HA! What have we here?" Holmes pulled out an envelope post-marked Rotherhithe from the man's pocket. There was the same handwriting on the envelope as was on Wilson's notes. Inside the envelope was a cheque for a hundred quid. "Don't you know better than to carry uncashed cheques with you? It is an easy way to lose money."

Rotherhithe was a mere eight miles from Baker Street. So it _was _plausible that Wilson had been able to receive his minion's report, left the note at 221b and got out of sight before Holmes returned. That still did not make it any clearer if Holmes should risk breaking his silence by turning this lackey over to the police. _Perhaps you should turn him in,_ Holmes told himself. _When Wilson challenged you to find Watson he laid down some ground rules. While he may not have planned on his lackey being captured, he did know that you would have to be aware of the fact you were being watched in order to make sure the rules were being followed to the letter. There was nothing stated in the rules in reguards to the capture of the lackey. You can always claim that this man had attempted to pick-pocket you and you were turning him in for stealing. Lestrade need not know the truth just yet._

That solved Holmes' delema of what the note to Wilson should say. It could be from his own person, explaining what he had done and why. He would, of course, omit the discovery of the envolope. The less Wilson knew of the exact advantage Holmes had, the better the chance Watson would live. Still, Holmes felt uncertain, and cursed himself for his indecision. He was not used to second guessing his actions, being so hesitant and frightened. Of course, Watson's life had never been so dependant on Holmes' next move either. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. It was time to put his plan into action.

"Come on then, let's go," Holmes dragged his prisoner by the arm out of the alley. He hailed a cab with his free hand and they were soon on their way to Scotland Yard.

"Yes, may I help you sir?" Lestrade asked, eyeing the two men suspiciously. Holmes could not help feeling slightly amused by the fact Lestrade did not recognise him. _I do look like a rather unsavory character,_he thought, wondering if he should reveal his identity or stay in character. It would be amusing to see the look of shock on the inspector's face. An sudden burst of understanding came to Holmes. Since he was already in disguise, it was not really "Sherlock Holmes" reporting to the police at all. So he truly was not going back on his bargain with Wilson. Making sure he did not break out of character Holmes began telling a tale to Lestrade.

Holmes knew he had to be careful not to get too carried away with his preformance or _he_would be thrown in prison as well. So he made a claim that the lackey had stolen his watch and refused to give it back, that the watch had been an anniversary gift from his late wife and he demanded that justice be served. Lestrade listened to this carefully. Holmes paid close attention to the expression on Lestrade's face. Was that-belief? Indeed it was. Holmes silently congratulated himself for his preformance.

"All right, you will have to file a report of course but I'll see to it you get your property back," Lestrade promised.

Ten minutes later Holmes was at the telegraph office.

YOUR LACKEY HAS BEEN CAPTURED STOP DELIVERED HIM IN DISGUISE STOP NO RULES WERE BROKEN STOP I WILL WIN STOP HOLMES.

Holmes' heart was racing and his whole body shook with anticipation. There was no changing his mind now. Would Wilson agree that no rules had been broken? Or had Holmes sealed Watson's fate?_ Perhaps Watson is already dead, and this is just Wilson's way of toying with you, like a cat plays with a mouse._ He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. He had to cling to the hope that he would succeed. He took the envelope out of his pocket and looked at it.

The envelope had an address on it, but whether or not it was a real one Holmes was not entirely certain. It was possible it was a safe house Wilson used to cover his tracks as a precaution. To know for sure, Holmes would actually have to go there to see for himself. That would mean a delay in receiving Wilson's reply. Then again, if the address was legit, going home might give Wilson time to move Watson somewhere else. _Or kill him,_ hissed the dark thought again.

Holmes gritted his teeth. Even if the address _was_ nothing more than a safe house, he still might find some clues to get him closer to finding Watson. The address could even be the place where Watson was being held. Holmes had to go.

Another long cab ride later Holmes arrived at the address. The building looked as unsteady as a house of cards, as if the slightest breeze could send it tumbling down. Most of the windows were covered with a thick layer of grime that Holmes could not wipe away. Making his way carefully around the side of the house, keeping his finger on the trigger of his revolver Holmes found a window that had been broken. He glanced inside.

The room was completely empty, the wallpaper peeling off in huge strips. The floor was wooden, the boards half rotted. _Best step carefully._ Holmes swallowed down the lump rising in his throat. Just now, his thoughts had sounded almost exactly like Watson's voice. It seemed obvious that no-one was here but he needed to be absolutely certain of that before he left. He cautiously climbed through the window and made he way to the door. The floor creaked and moaned with every step he took like an animal crying out in pain.

The rest of the house was much like the room had been-no furniture of any kind, no sign that anybody had been there for a decade at least. Holmes felt like screaming. There had to be _something _here. This address could not be a complete dead end, he could not have come this far for nothing! A skittering noise made Holmes jump back. Whirling around toward the source of the sound he caught a quick glimpse of a rat darting into a hole in the wall.

Realising that he had been holding his breath Holmes let out a long sigh. _Now what? _He wondered. There was a flight of stairs that led to the upper floor of the house, but they were as rotted as the floor. They might collapse if he attempted to climb them. Holmes could not bear to leave without searching _every_ room in this house. He had to look upstairs.

At about halfway up Holmes' foot went right through a step. He clung to the banister for dear life. His nerves were becoming more frayed by the moment. _Keep going,_ he told himself. _It is not that much further._ He hoped going down would be easier.

Once he got to the top he felt his heart sink. None of the rooms up here appeared to be in use either. Perhaps this place was a dead end after all. He tried the last door at the end of the hall. It would not open. Holmes' hopes started to rise again, and he threw his full weight against the door. It flew open on the second try.

Unlike the rest of the house the room was not entirely empty. There were a couple of crates which seemed to double as a table and chair, and on the floor was a threadbare blanket and completely flat pillow. On top of one of the crates was a folded up newspaper. Holmes picked it up. By checking the date he could get some idea of how recently the owner of it had been here. It was almost a week old. Just one day shy of the date Watson was kidnapped. Had Wilson been here that day, plotting the kidnapping? Would he, or another lackey come back? Wilson was liable to be more cautious now that he had lost one of his helpers. Still there might be a chance-_No, they will notice the step you so clumsily broke,_ Holmes thought to himself disgustedly. _They will know that someone else was here and will flee._

Then again, the person would actually have to come to the house to notice the broken step. But if it was Wilson that did not nessasarily mean that Watson would be rescued. Holmes had not forgotten how smug Wilson had been when he had made the challenge. If the threat of bodily harm had not frightened him then, it was unlikely to do so now. As long as Holmes was unaware of where Watson was and the nature of his imprisonment, Wilson was untouchable. Still, if it was another lackey...

Also in the room was a birdcage. It lay on its side on the floor, bent and twisted half out of shape. There were a few trace feathers, and they were stained with blood. _Perhaps a stray cat got to one of Wilson's feathered friends,_ Holmes thought. The blood was too faded and the amount of it too small to have belonged to Watson. It at least made it clearer that Wilson _had_ been here, and that the crates and newspaper did not belong to one of the city's homeless.

Another skittering noise drew his attention to the far wall. There was a medium sized paper sack on the floor. It had a hole in its side, and seeds were scattered all over the floor. A rat was nibbling at the feast it had found. Holmes ran over, sending the rat darting back into the wall. _Birdseed!_ If Holmes could find out who sold this brand, he might get closer to capturing Wilson. _'Feathered Friends,' _Holmes read. _How adorable,_he thought sarcastically.

Holmes looked out the window. He had completely lost track of time, the sky was streaked with red and violet hues. He would have to leave soon. It was too late to check the stores now, he would have to wait until tomorrow. He punched the wall. Yet another day had gone by without him being able to save Watson, and now he still did not yet know how Wilson took the news of his lackey being captured. Holmes closed his eyes and prayed with every fiber of his being that Watson would be all right. He thought of waiting here to see if anybody would show up, but the intense curiousity of what Wilson's reply would be compelled him to go. If only he could be in two places at once! Or enlist the aid of the Irregulars-but Holmes did not feel secure enough to take a chance.

Going back downstairs was more than a little unnerving, as Holmes stepped as carefully as he could to avoid breaking through any more steps. Once he was back outside it took a good ten minutes to hail a cab. As such, darkness had fallen completely by the time he got back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him at the door. "This just arrive for you five minutes ago Mr. Holmes," she said as she handed him a telegram.

FAIR ENOUGH STOP BUT YOU HAVE NOT WON YET STOP REGARDS BRYSON.

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**_Obviously he's going to sign it with his alias since he does not know Holmes figured out his real identity. To be continued, obviously. And hopefully it won't take me so long to update next time!_**


	15. Chapter 15

_**Back to visiting poor Watson. I've kept his appearances to a minimum from a number of reasons, the more selfish ones being that it's not exactly a pleasant subject matter and it's a challenge writing for a character who's been deprived of their eye sight.**_

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_The angel statue seemed to glare down at him, as if passing judgement. It had been a long time since his last visit, far too long. He had promised his wife he would visit her more often, but his own life had kept him distracted. She deserved so much better, always had. He shivered as he pulled his coat more tightly around himself. It was so **cold **here, his whole body felt as though it were about to go numb. He knelt on the frozen ground. He had brought flowers with him-bright red roses, the only colour in this God forsaken place. _

_Just as he was about to place the bouquet on the grave he thought he heard a scraping sound coming from underneath the soil. He dismissed it as his imagination, but then it happened again. As he struggled to his feet a partially decayed hand shot out of the ground and grabbed his ankle! He landed flat on his back as a second hand seized him by the other leg. The hands began pulling themselves up along his legs, hauling the rest of the body out of the ground._

_What had once been beautiful porcelain skin was now green with mold and peeling off the bone. Her blond hair was now thin wisps on her scalp. She leaned over him, and he swore he could actually feel breath on his skin. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his chin and turned his face towards hers._

_"Darling," she whispered, her voice crackling like dead leaves. "Give us a kiss my love." Once again he tried to break free, but with one horrible tug, he was pulled down into the grave. The coffin lid closed on top of him, and he was imprisoned in darkness. All he could feel was the cold dead flesh of his wife's hands along his body. Then an intense burning sensation in his left shoulder, which then extended to his face, and then his collar bone, and then-_

"Wake up you fool!" Sharp steel sliced into Watson's leg just above the knee, bringing the dream to an abrupt halt. "Wha-what is it?" he rasped, his voice so hoarse he could barely hear it. It was not only the wide variety of wounds upon his person that felt inflamed, his throat also felt incredible sore. He was seized by the back of his neck and pulled into a sitting position.

Watson clenched his teeth and drew breathes in short, quick gasps. _No, no,_ he thought weakly. This could not possibly still be happening. Holmes would have saved him by now, he would. This was a dream too, and at any moment he would wake up safe in his own room at Baker Street. Perhaps Holmes would be leaning over his bed, candle in hand, to ask him along on a case. Even as the thoughts passed through Watson's mind, he knew it was desperate wishing on his part.

He tried to remind himself that the passage of time only seemed so long because of his dire situation. In reality it might not really have been long at all. _Holmes will not give up until you are found,_ Watson told himself._ Don't give up. You have to hold on, you **have to.** _Though at this point Watson's hope was fading fast. He was not certain how much longer he could maintain his sanity, let alone his life.

"Hmph, that is more like it." The voice of his tormentor sounded angrier than usual. Watson tried to comprehend why. Had some mysterious 'rules' been broken? Watson remembered hearing his tormentor rant about them before, it must have happend again. As in that previous encounter, Watson could not recall any 'rules' he might have inadvertently broken. Usually when he did something to anger his captor the man always explained what he had done wrong-while slicing into his flesh with that knife.

"You're feeling a little warm, did you know that? You might be getting ill." He placed his hand on Watson's forehead and the pressure on the wound made the latter flinch. The captor tightened his grip as he hissed,"It had better not be contagious, I have far too much work to do to end up sick in bed." The pressure went away and Watson slumped back down on the floor. "You wouldn't want me to take ill either, would you? There's no one else around here to take care of you if that should happen."

That Watson's life was entirely dependant on this madman certainly made him feel ill. Ever since he found himself here he had wondered why he was being kept alive at all. Was he bait in a trap to get to Holmes? If he was, how come his captor never even mentioned the detective? Would he not want to mock Watson of this fact? Watson's confusion did little to help his physical state, which in turn made trying to figure things out increasingly difficult. It was at the point where just thinking in itself was a painful chore. Watson forced himself to remain as focused as he could. He _needed _to know why this was happening to him, figuring it out might help him remain sane. Thurston somehow played a part in all of this, Watson was almost certain of that. Why else would his last memory before awakening here be of talking with Thurston? Was he dead? Had he somehow escaped and told Holmes or the police what had happened? Watson's skull began to pound, the pain drowing out his thoughts. A soft moan escaped his lips; he was beyond the point of caring.

"You poor thing," the voice said with mock pity. "In pain are we? Well I suppose I could..." Watson had a faint nagging feeling that he should focus on what was being said to him, but the effort brought on a wave of nausea and it took several swallows to fight off a round of dry heaves. A loud roaring sound filled his ears, as if a train was rushing past. Then he must have fainted, for the next thing he knew his pain had somewhat subsided and he was seemingly alone. Those birds were once again singing loudly. Strange how the bird calls never sounded cheerful, as Watson was accustomed to hearing, but more as if they were terrified. What could frighten them so? Why did they not fly away? Were they trapped here too? If he did manage to survive this, he would never be able to listen to the chirping of birds in the same way again.

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**_To be continued._**


	16. Chapter 16

_**Back to Holmes' investigation. I especially want to thank aragonite for giving me some important facts about canaries, and a real direction of where Holmes' investigation should go next. I sure hope I've got this right!**_

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Holmes crumpled up the telegram, struggling to keep his temper in check. Wilson seemed hell bent on breaking him, and Holmes could not let him succeed. He did feel a twinge of pride that Wilson had used his alias, it meant that Wilson was still in the dark about the advantage Holmes had gained. _You also have the brand name of that birdseed,_ Holmes told himself, though he could not do anything with _that _information until tomorrow. What was he supposed to do in the mean time? Sleep was most definitely out of the question. His waking hours were terrifying enough without adding nightmares to the situation. Also, time was far too valuable to waste sleeping. He had already used up precious time running around in circles. He had failed to wring more information from Thurston while the traitor was still alive. That one canary feather he had found by Watson's desk, the animal smells on the notes Wilson had sent, there had been far too many variables attached to them without any real way of narrowing them down. _Now you can,_ he thought. _You have got more facts to work with now._ Holmes practically flew up the stairs, with Mrs. Hudson on his heels.

He went straight to the sitting room and began scattering papers about once more. _The maps, where did that woman put the maps?_ "_MRS. HUDSON!"_ As he turned around, he nearly collided with the woman herself. "Oh," he said, more calmly this time. "The maps, where did you put them?" Mrs. Hudson quietly went to his bookshelf and pulled them out. "Thank you," he said softly. He spread one of them out on the dinning table.

Now, then. He had already dismissed any location that was prone to factory soot or downwind of said factories. Canaries could be killed by the least little bit of smoke, and since Wilson had tracked that canary feather in with him when he had showed up to make the challenge, he would have had to be in recent contact with one or more. If he really was with Watson, then the birds might be with him as well. Now that he knew that Wilson was a canary trainer, the feather made much more sense. If nothing else, it eliminated places where Wilson might _not_ be.

The cheque Holmes had found on that lackey had been worth a hundered quid, combined with the fact that Wilson would have had to offer a great sum of money to Thurston to get him to betray Watson showed that Wilson must be fairly well-to-do. Canary trainers earned must of their money through the coal mines. Between this fact and the brand of birdseed Holmes had two very important clues he could follow, assuming Wilson was not using an alias Holmes had not yet heard of.

Holmes removed the cheque from his pocket and looked at it again. The handwriting was unmistakably the same as on the threating notes, as Holmes had already deduced. The name used was the Peter Bryson alias. Though this too had an animal scent, it lacked the smell of hay that the notes had. There had not been any hay at the Rotherhithe address, so while the cheque might have been written there, the notes had not. _So where were they written then? _Perhaps the same place Watson was being held? Holmes remembered his theory from earlier that morning that the notes might have been written up in advance, due to Wilson being able to rely upon Thurston's weak nature. "Urgh," Holmes groaned, burying his face in his hands. This train of thought had not gotten him very far the first time, and it did not seem to be getting him much further this time either. _What else do you know? _

_Well, canaries are very sensitive to light and need shade for at least part of the day,_ he thought. _North light would be the most ideal for their location, but that does not necessarily mean that Wilson would keep his birds in such a place._Holmes remembered how Wilson's former landlady had said that Wilson did not do a very good job of caring for his birds, often leaving the task up to her. She had also said that she was still receiving complaints from former customers of his. Though Holmes supposed it was plausible that Wilson had learned better since then. Would he really keep Watson in the same place as his birds though? So many canaries in one place would certainly attract a lot of attention from the neighbours. Then again, maybe those birds could also help hide a human hostage from said neighbours. Wilson had been committing his crimes while still at his former residence. At least one victim had been tortured over the course of several days before dying. The landlady had not struck Holmes as being an accomplice to the crimes. So perhaps Wilson had trusted his birds in her care while he went to "take care" of his prisoner. That might explain why there were so many complaints from former customers, and why Wilson might choose to keep his birds with him this time.

Still, the fact that Wilson's former customers had made so many complaints would make tracking him down a little easier. All Holmes had to do was inquier at coal mining companies and see if any of them were unfortunate enough to have purchased birds that died before they could get anywhere near the mines. He knew they would be more likely to speak to someone of some authority rather than a private detective, no matter how well known he was. It was then he remembered that he was still in the guise of a dockworker. That certainly was not going to work. He would need something far more respectable. What could he be? An insurance investigator perhaps? The miners depended on those birds to test the oxygen level of mines, being sold sick birds put their lives at risk. It was the best idea he could come up with. He did not have much time available to formulate plans, but at the same time he needed to make sure he could come up with the best possible solutions he could.

Holmes went to dig through his files. Mrs. Hudson had taken the extra effort to put them back in alphabetical order and he soon found what he was looking for: a listing of coal mining companies stationed in or near London. They had proven to be useful in previous cases, now that the situation was far more dire, he prayed that they would be useful again.

When he turned round again he saw her enter the room with a small tray. "I know I can't convince you to eat very much, but you need to keep your strength up," said she. Holmes still was not fond of the idea of eating, but his hands were tied until morning. It would give him something else to do, at least. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He raised the cover. "Hmm," a small bowl of soup, two rolls and a glass of milk, compared to what he had been living off of since Watson's kidnapping it was a three course banquet. Holmes was not certain if he would be able to finish it.

_You need to formulate a real plan,_ he told himself, _Do not forget Rotherhithe. Even if you do get another address from the mining companies it could very well be another safe house. You also need to believe that you are very likely going to walk right into a trap, whether you find Watson or not._ Holmes wondered again why Wilson had targeted Watson. Watson _had _figured out that Wilson was responsible for the deaths of many people, and if it were not for Scotland Yard being run by imbeciles Wilson might very well have been hung by now. If it was vengeance though, why not kill Watson outright? Why bring Holmes into it, and challenge him directly to save the doctor? Did it tie into Wilson's revenge against Watson? Did he wish to intensify Watson's suffering by making Holmes suffer as well? This was, of course, assuming Watson was even still alive. But that still raised the same question: Why intentionally involve Holmes in this directly? Did Wilson suspect that Watson may have told Holmes about the presumed crimes of a certain canary trainer, and this was an elaborate test to see how much Holmes suspected or believed? Whatever his motives, Wilson had made a very grave error by targeting Watson and Holmes. He had already evaded arrest, all he would have had to do was continue along with his own private affairs. Now, however, he was going to pay the ultimate price. Holmes was determined to see to that. Even if he was too late to save Watson, Wilson was going to rot in hell for what he did. He took out his notebook and began to write a letter. If he was to have even the slightest chance of succeeding, he would eventually have to break his silence to Scotland Yard. He would hold on to this letter until he was certain he needed it. Then, and _only_ then would he send it.

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**_To be continued._**


	17. Chapter 17

_**Bet you didn't think I'd be visiting Watson again so soon, did you? I hadn't planned on it, but I guess you could say he was begging me for another update.**_

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He had been floating through a bluish gray fog when a nearly overwhelming stench of rubbing alcohol, and then an agony flared through Watson's entire body, as though he had been doused with lye. Just above the sounds of his own hoarse screams he could barely make out his captor saying something, but what it was he could not tell, nor did he really care. All that mattered was the pain. Much, much later when he could finally think again it would occur to him that rubbing alcohol was used to clean wounds...

_"Can't have you dying,"_ he did not hear the words clearly at that moment, but his memory which had been riddled with holes would later supply him with his captors taunts. _"I need you to stay alive for me."_

_Why alive, why are you **doing **this? _He longed to ask, even though he knew that he would never get an answer. Death was becoming more of an appealing option the longer he stayed here.

His mind was nagging him about something, there was something important, vital, that he was not paying enough attention to. Something about that fog... even when he woke up it had not receeded much. Usually he was in absolute darkness, but now there was some light. Very faint light, to be sure, but light all the same.

Northern light was bluish gray, was it not? He was almost certain... he could be wrong, this might just be another cruel dream. The pain though, it was so intensely real that it could not possibly be imagined. He could feel the rough wood against his bare back,(for his shirt had been removed upon his arrival here and had never been returned to him) could feel those terrible fingers comb through his hair in a mock attempt at soothing him. _No, no, not a dream._

"Your fever seems to be going down. That is certainly quite a relief. For a moment there I was not certain..."

The words of his captor interupted Watson's thoughts. There still remained a smugness in that terrible voice. There was a low chuckle and then he added, "Perhaps I should fetch you a blanket or something. You have been quite well behaved lately." Another low chuckle and then Watson was alone once more.

He sucked air in through his teeth, his gag reflex had kicked in. _Why,_ he wondered when he could think again, _had I not seen that bluish light before?_ He knew he had been here long enough. Even as out of sorts as his sense of time had become, he was nearly positive that he should have caught that light through his blindfold sooner. Had he been moved?

A fresh wave of despair washed over him, dapening the joy he had felt at actually seeing light in so long. If he had been moved then it would make it even harder for Holmes to find him. Just then the birds started in on their chorus again. _Wait.._ If he had been moved why did he still hear the birds? Their cries seemed to be coming from the same place, somewhere above him. But if he had not been moved, why had he not noticed any light through his blindfold before?

Had he been drugged? He remembered that one time when his pain was nearly overwhelming. What had his captor said? _"Perhaps I could-"_

Watson had not caught the end of that pharse. Had he passed out as he originally thought, or had he been drugged somehow? Was his captor drugging him to keep him under his control? Perhaps begining to use less since Watson was getting so weak now? Was this why Watson was only just now noticing that light through his blindfold? He wished he knew.

_Aren't birds most vocal before noon?_ This seemingly random thought was replaced with one more apparent: All of the other times he had heard those birds he had been in complete darkness. Unless he really _had_ been moved, he should have been able to see that light at the same time. If he had been drugged(it was hard to distinguish what was symptoms of his obvious head injury and malnutrition with side affects of chemicals) perhaps he was also moved, from a windowless room to one with windows.

That light took up all of Watson's thoughts. He remained obessed with it, staring and staring until it began to fade away. "No, no, come back," he croaked, but the light paid no heed, and he was soon in absolute darkness once more.

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**_To be continued. Yes, I KNOW it's too short okay? It's the best I could do right now._**


	18. Chapter 18

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Back to the chase! Thank you so very much to everyone who has left reviews! I sure hope you like this chapter too!

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Holmes could not remember the last time he had ever felt so exhausted in his entire life. As he tried to flag down a cab, he happened to catch his reflection in a shop window. At least the makeup he used to erase the dark circles under his eyes was still holding up. The glasses he wore helped as well. His hair was still neatly combed and his face freshly shaved. However he was feeling on this inside, it thankfully(for now, at least) was not showing on the outside.

Once in the cab he looked down at his list and sighed. There was only one stop left. The rest of the companies had only Wilson's former address, or the Rotherhithe one. This was his last chance. If this led to a dead end... he had no idea what he would do then.

He fingered the letter he had written to Scotland Yard. There was a blank space where the location of Wilson's hideout would go. Holmes snarled as he once again thought about Watson's journal entries. It was the Yard's fault that this was happening. Watson's blood should be on their hands for allowing Wilson to go free.

Holmes' thoughts came to an abrupt halt. He was thinking of his friend as if he were already dead. _There is a very strong possiblity of that, you need to accept it._ He kept going over that again and again. When Wilson had first made the challenge Holmes had been fearful(and furious) but still had a strong sense of hope that Watson was still alive, and could be saved. As days passed, the hope faded more and more. Now it was like the flame of a candle, flickering, about to go out.

_There is no proof that Watson is dead!_But there was also no proof that he was still alive. The fact that he did not have a difinitive answer was enough to drive Holmes insane. It was true though, he _would _need to keep that possible reality in mind. Wilson only needed to give Holmes the impression that Watson was still alive to get the detective to step into his trap.

Holmes shook his head hard. Wilson's apparent lack of motive for dragging him into this was also taking a toll on his sanity. _You also don't know his motives for killing his other victims,_ Holmes thought to himself. Perhaps there was not any motive at all. Or if it existed, it made sense to Wilson and Wilson alone.

With a start Holmes realised he had arrived at his stop. After paying the cabbie, Holmes made his way into the building.

"Yes, we did get a group of canaries from a Mister Wilson just last week," Holmes was told by the company manager, who had introduced himself as Mr. Nichols."At least a third of them died upon arrival, and the rest were far to ill to be of any use to us." The man scowled. "I have his address here, though the scoundrel may have already moved on, and taken our money with him."

He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to Holmes. The detective studied it carefully, feeling his hopes rise. The address was a new one. _This could be it! _Then again, he had thought the Rotherhithe address would be the correct one as well. He needed to make sure before he sent his letter to Scotland Yard.

_Please be the right address, please!_ Holmes prayed as he wrote the address down in his own notebook. It was in London's East End, same as the others. He supposed that Wilson would want to remain in a high crime area, the better to cover up his own evil deeds.

Back in the cab Holmes found himself impatiently squirming in his seat. Fear and hope had left him feeling on edge. This had to be it-it just _had _to. No matter how much he tried to will himself to calm down, that this could very well be another dead end, he could not shake the feeling that the game was coming to an end _today._Either Watson would be saved, or his death would be avenged. No matter what happened, Wilson's reign of terror would be over-forever.

_Even if it means my own death,_ Holmes swore to himself once more. If Watson had indeed died at the hands of that madman-Holmes honestly did not think he was strong enough to survive that.

Holmes checked to make sure he still had his revolver. As for the letter... he tore out the page of his notebook that held the address and stuffed it in the envelope.

When they had arrived at the destination, Holmes leapt from the cab. "Thank you, my good man. Wait here, and if I do not return in the next ten minutes I want you to take this letter straight to Scotland Yard, understood? I will see to it that you are paid for your trouble."

_To think that I have to put my life, and possibly Watson's, in the hands of a cabbie and Scotland Yard, _Holmes thought to himself. _If I cannot survive this, I pray to God that Lestrade and his associates can get here before Wilson can dispose of the evidence!_

This house was not all that different from the one in Rotherhithe. the main difference was that it looked far less likely to fall in on his head. Holmes began trying windows and doors on the ground floor without success, they were all locked.

_Now what?_ He could not break a window, that could attract some very unwanted attention. He could try climbing the trellis to the upper floor... but it did not look as if it would support his weight.

_You have to try. For Watson's sake you **must **try._

After taking a deep breath, Holmes removed his gloves and overcoat to make the climb easier. Then he cautiously made his way up the trellis.

It felt as if his heart would literally burst out of his chest. Despite the chill, sweat began dripping into his eyes. His whole body trembled. _Deep breathes, slowly now._ He was so close, now. Just a little bit further... he did not think about what he would do if _this _window were locked. He could worry about that later. Right now, he just had to reach it.

At that moment his left foot slipped, and he frantically grabbed the window sill to keep from falling. He held on for dear life as he tried to will his heart to slow down.

_Unwanted attention or not, if this window's locked I'm breaking the glass._

Luckily for him, the window was not locked, and he practically fell in in his quest to get to solid ground. He did not feel the least bit safe though, and he removed his revolver from his pocket.

The room was empty, but the house was not. Coming from somewhere above him(the attic perhaps?) he could hear the chirping of birds.

Wilson's feathered companions were here, but what about Watson, or Wilson himself? Holmes slowly got to his feet and very cautiously began to search the other rooms on that floor. Holmes did not know if he should be grateful that the floorboards did not squeak. True, it made it easier for him to sneak around, but it also made it easier for someone to sneak up on him as well.

So far, there was nothing. Just the pounding of his heart and the chirping of the birds. He kept himself alert, listening for any change of sound. Was it just him, or was the chirping becoming more frantic?

The last room on this floor was in the northern wing. When Holmes entered, the chirping was distinctly louder, as if it were coming from directly overhead. The room appeared to be empty, but then Holmes noticed another door that seemed to lead to an adjacent room.

He tried the doorknob and scowled. _Locked._It would be easy to pick the lock... but he would have to pocket his revovler to have both hands free, and the door looked too sturdy to be broken down. He could shoot the lock, but again, he did not want to draw attention to himself, not yet.

_No choice._ He reluctantly pocketed the revolver. As he picked the lock, he kept himself alert, expecting to be attacked at any second. Once the lock had sprung, he quickly removed his revolver once more and cautiously entered the small room.

As he went in he felt a rope brush across his face. When he looked up at the celing he saw that the rope was connected to a trap door that led to the attic. Scattered across the floor were bits of straw. The birdsong was _definatly _louder in this room. There was a stench too, an animal smell, and that of urine.

There was only one window, and the shade was drawn, leaving the room dim. Something on the floor caught Holmes' eye. His heart stopped beating as he realised what, or rather _who,_ he was looking at. Momentarily forgetting his own safety, he knelt down at the side of his broken and bleeding friend.

"Watson?" Holmes whispered tentatively, as he reached down to check the doctor's pulse. It was weak and unsteady. With growing horror he took in Watson's appearance. His shirt was missing, his torso marred with numerous cuts running along his chest and back. Another scar ran down the length of his forehead, and there were at least two more on his legs where his trousers were ripped. His arms and legs were shackled, and a blindfold covered his eyes.

"Dear God," Holmes whispered again. "Watson, can you hear me?"

Watson had flinched slightly when Holmes had checked his pulse, but now he remained limp and unresponsive. Holmes tried again.

"Watson, it is I, Holmes. Please, can you hear me?" Holmes swallowed hard. "I am going to remove your blindfold now, all right?"

With nimble fingers Holmes undid the blindfold. Watson's eyes were closed so tightly they looked as if they had been glued shut. Further attempts by Holmes to get Watson to acknowledge him were unsuccessful.

"Now I just need to undo your shackles and we'll get out of here." There was a nagging that this was going far too easily. That Wilson could not keep the charade of the challenge going for that much longer. Any moment now the trap could be sprung.

_Even so, I have to get Watson out of here!_ He could not leave Watson here, trap or no trap. _He's already in grave danger as it is. At least with me here he stands something of a chance._

Distracted as he was with his task, he was caught off guard when the trap door to the attic fell open behind him. Whirling around, he reached for his revolver-but before he could fire off a shot, a bullet struck him in the shoulder.

Andrew Wilson stood there smiling, smoking gun still pointed at Holmes.

"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. It appears the good Doctor did not exaggerate your abilities after all."

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**_To be continued..._**


	19. Chapter 19

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Here's the latest chapter. Thank you as always to everyone who has left reviews, your kind words really mean a lot to me.

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Holmes clutched his left shoulder, feeling the slick blood ooze through his fingers. His revolver lay on the floor where he had dropped it. He could try to pick it up and fire a shot with his right hand-but no, Wilson still had his gun pointed right at him and could easily fire off another two shots before Holmes could fire. The pain was intense, and he sucked in air through his teeth.

A low moan took Holmes' attention away from Wilson for a moment. Watson's eyelids were twitching, and he was trying to lift his head. After a few seconds, he lapsed back into unconsciousness once more.

Holmes was still on his knees in front of Watson, as he had been before Wilson had fired at him. Holmes was determined to act as Watson's shield if need be. Now that he knew his friend was alive, he was going to do everything in his power to keep him that way.

_You have to stall Wilson until the police show up. It might be your only chance._The police would probably need a warrent, and that was going to take time. Time that he and Watson might not have. _You have to try._

"Would you be so kind as to slide your revolver over to me, please? You can just kick it over with your foot, that will be fine."

Holmes swallowed down the pain. _Feign ignorance. _"Wuh-why are you doing this? You s-said if I found Watson w-we could leave together," he choked out, angry that his voice shook so much. "I found him before the deadline. I _won."_

"I lied," Wilson said simply. "The revolver, if you please. You obviously aren't going to use it, or you would have already done so."

"Why?" Holmes rasped. He could almost taste the blood-a metallic taste. "Why have you done this?" He did not want to give the revolver over to Wilson, but if he disobeyed, Wilson would kill both him and Watson. _He will do that anyway. _Which course of action would buy the most time?

"The revolver, _now._" Wilson's voice had taken a dangerous tone. He shifted his position slightly so his weapon was pointed to Holmes' left, aiming directly at Watson's head.

Reluctantly, Holmes kicked the weapon in Wilson's general direction. Without taking his eyes off of Holmes, Wilson knelt down and picked it up.

"That's better," he said cheerily. "Now, this is the part where you explain what clues you found and how they led you to this place."

_Wonderful, more time to stall._ "If I tell you," Holmes asked, "will you tell me why you've done this?"

"Tut, tut," said Wilson. "I would have sworn that was part of the explanation as well. It was in the stories I've read."

"You usually change your method of killing with each of your victims. When you showed up at Baker Street with Watson's belongings-" here Holmes' voice turned to ice at the memory. "The shoulder of his coat had a slash mark identical to your last known victim. That was intentional, was it not? Another 'gift wrapped' clue?"

"Bravo, I was surprised that you had not figured it out right away. I suppose the shock and thrown you off of your game, correct?"

Holmes was not certain how to respond. Should he reveal that Watson had not told him about the canary trainer, and that it did not occur to him to check the doctor's journals for clues until three whole days had passed?

"I'll take your silence as a 'yes'," Wilson said smugly.

"Why kidnap Watson and force me to track him down? I still don't understand. The police had let you go free." Holmes did not even bother to hide the desperation in his voice. He _needed _to know.

"Now, now, you still haven't explained how you were able to find your way here."

"Really," Holmes spat. "You're a canary trainer, once I knew of your profession it was simple enough to find you. Now tell me why you felt the need to play this bizarre game!"

"The world's greatest detective can't figure it out? Such a pity. If you can't understand it, then I won't be able to explain it to you."

Holmes swallowed hard. "Was it because you thought Watson had told me about you? You felt a need to silence us both? That still doesn't explain why you would turn this into a game instead of simply killing us outright."

"That is true, it doesn't. So obviously that's not the solution, is it?"

_How much longer until Lestrade and the other Yarders get here? _Holmes thought desperatly. _How much longer?_

A low moan from Watson interrupted the conversation. Both men watched as the doctor struggled once again to regain consciousness.

"Talk to him. Like you were doing before I interrupted you. Let him know that you're here," said Wilson in a matter-of-fact tone.

Watson's eyelids were fluttering again, and after a moment they slowly opened. He squinted as he glanced around him, clearly having a hard time seeing anything.

"Watson?" Holmes asked softly. The doctor's head turned towards the sound of Holmes' voice, but his eyes remained unfocused.

Watson licked his lips. "Holmes?" he rasped, his weak voice sounding uncertain.

"Shhh. Yes, my dear fellow." Holmes reached out with his good hand and touched Watson's arm, but quickly withdrew it when Watson flinched and drew back.

"How touching, the two friends reunited at last," Wilson said with false sweetness. At the sound of his voice, Waston began to tremble.

"Oh, don't worry doctor. You and the dear detective here won't be sepreated again, I promise."

The way Wilson said that was enough to give _Holmes _chills. _Just what is he planning to do now? _Holmes swore to himself that if Wilson came any closer that he would fight back, injured shoulder or not. _Of course, he can just kill us both from where he's standing now._ Small as the room was, Holmes would not be able to cross the length of it in time to stop Wilson.

_Damn you, Lestrade! Where in heaven's name are you?!_

* * *

Inspector Lestrade wearily rubbed his eyes. That thief the dockworker had brought in not that long ago had recently revealed that the man who had brought him in was in fact Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and that he had been unfairly arrested. Lestrade felt confused. Why would Mr.Holmes keep his identity a secret when he brought the ruffian in? There had to be a good reason for it. For even assuming said ruffian was telling the truth about the identity of his captor, it was highly unlikely that he was an innocent victim. No matter how strange Mr. Holmes' actions were, in the end they always made sense.

Could the man locked in the back cell have some connection to the disappearance of Dr. Watson? Lestrade recalled his discussion with Mr. Holmes outside the home of Mr. Thurston, after the latter had committed suicide. Mr. Holmes had promised that he would reveal all when it was safe enough. Lestrade had yet to hear any word.

He remembered how frightened Mr. Holmes had looked. That was what stuck in his mind most vividly, because he had never seen the detective even slightly unnerved before. Mr. Holmes had quite obviously been extremely concerned for Dr. Watson's well being.

_Who knew that man actually had a heart?_ Lestrade thought, chewing on his lip. Still, Mr. Holmes' fear made Lestrade concerned as well. For the detective to have allowed himself to be seen with his guard down like that- at first Lestrade had wanted to dismiss it as an act, but those eyes... no actor, no matter how skilled, could emulate that terror.

"Inspector! Inspector!"

Lestrade looked up to see Gregson running towards him with a letter clutched in his hand.

"Yes, what's the matter?" Lestrade asked, and then on a hunch added, "Is that letter from Mr. Holmes?"

"How on Earth did you-oh, never mind that now. You remember that canary trainer Dr. Watson had suspected was a killer?"

"What about him?" Lestrade _felt _Gregson's answer before he heard it.

"He went back to his old tricks, that's what! And this time his victim seems to be Dr. Watson himself!"

"I knew there was something wrong with that man the moment I laid eyes on him. I never should have let you talk me out of my suspicions."

"_Me? _It was you who tried to convince me that Dr. Watson was wrong," Gregson snarled.

"Oh, who cares who tried to talk whom out of it. The point is that Dr. Watson's life is in danger, is it not?" Lestrade asked. No wonder Mr. Holmes had been so upset.

"Yes, and Mr. Holmes' as well. According to this letter, he seems quite positive that he's walking straight into a trap."

"Well why are we wasting time standing around here arguing? Let's get going! Mr. Holmes did leave an address for where we're supposed to go, right?"

"Yes, but we can't just go barging in without a warrant! Lestrade, do you have any idea the amount of trouble we'll be in? And that Wilson person will get away with his crimes yet again."

"We'll certainly be in a lot less trouble than Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes currently are," Lestrade pointed out. He did not want the blood of those two to be on his hands. Any amount of trouble he got into would be worth it if he could avoid that fate.

"You can stay here and wait for the warrant if you like, Gregson, but I'm going now."

Lestrade snatched the letter from Gregson's grasp and ran out the door. A few moments later, Gregson reluctantly joined him.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	20. Chapter 20

**__**

Here's the latest chapter. Thank you as always to everyone who has left reviews, your kind words really mean a lot to me.

* * *

"Were you at least telling the truth about wanting to test my abilities?" Holmes was still trying his best to stall Wilson until the police could show up. Time had seemed to come to an absolute standstill though. How long had they been talking now? Twenty minutes, an hour, maybe more than that? Why had Lestrade not shown up yet?

"Yes, that part was true," Wilson's tone was very casual, as if they were discussing the weather. "Your doctor friend here is quite the gifted storyteller."

Holmes risked taking another glance at Watson. The doctor's eyes had closed once more, and Holmes could not tell if he was still conscious or not.

"...I had noticed, though, that you kept insulting Watson's reports, saying they were exaggerated and whatnot. So, as I said in my first meeting with you, I decided to see for myself how much was exaggeration. As I also mentioned in my first note, I suspected that having your partner's life in jeopardy might throw you off your rhythm a bit. Seeing that you were able to overcome that handicap, I believe you owe the doctor an apology. Your skills are everything he said and more."

"When you first saw how furious I was," Holmes said slowly, "You said that you were suprised, that you did not believe I would be so upset." His shoulder felt as if the Devil himself were stabbing him with his pitchfork. He cautiously tested his hand, as was relieved to see he could still move his fingers without too much difficulty.

"Well, perhaps your biographer was wrong about one thing," Wilson said dismissively.

At the mention of his friend, Holmes gingerly reached down to touch Watson's arm. This time Watson did not flinch. Holmes did not allow his gaze to drift away from Wilson for too long, though. He could not allow the sight of Watson's terrible injuries to hypnotise him.

Both he and Watson had been tortured by this madman, in Watson's case physically as well as mentally. Wilson had dismissed revenge for a motive, but it was still the only one that made sense. The emotional suffering was as important as their deaths. Wilson casually began whistling. _Why is he so willing to talk to me? Why doesn't he act? _Holmes was waiting. Waiting for Lestrade to show up, waiting for Wilson to kill him and Watson. The fact that neither event had taken place yet was enough to drive Holmes mad.

"I still believe this is revenge," Holmes told Wilson, "Even though you deny it."

"_You _never wronged me though, now did you? And as you can see, Watson here is too disoriented to fully appreciate your presence and suffering."

Holmes somehow managed a smirk. "Perhaps you plan to tell me you're the long-lost relative of a criminal I killed."

Wilson laughed. "I'm surprised you're able to keep your sense of humour, Mr. Holmes. No, nothing so melodramatic as that! So, if you're so sure that you and the doctor are victims of a revenge plot, do tell me why my other poor victims died."

"Why do you insist on continuing this game?" Holmes demanded to know.

"It quite entertaining hearing you go through your explamations in person. Even more so than reading it."

"So this is all a form of entertainment for you? The killing of innocent victims?" Holmes tried to hold on to the hope that Lestrade would show up at any second. Perhaps he was almost here now. He was almost grateful that the shade was down. At least Wilson would not be able to see the inspector arriving.

Wilson shrugged. "Perhaps," he acknowledged. "People do hunt for sport, do they not?"

That motive struck Holmes as being even more disturbing than killing for revenge or money. _Just pawns, that's all we are to him._

"That _is _it, isn't it? You hunted everyone just for sport!" Holmes shuddered. "Your last known victim, you tortured him the same way you've tortured Watson. What, the rush you experienced when you killed began to fade, so you had to prolong their agony to prolong your enjoyment?"

"Perhaps," Wilson said again. "But how do you explain my lack victims between then and now?"

"How can I be so sure there's a lack of victims? You may have just simply improved your craft so your actions were completely untraceable."

"That sounds logical," Wilson chuckled softly. "I do believe you have hit upon the truth."

"So, what now?" Holmes whispered, his heart pounding.

"This has been quite an exciting game, I must admit. Such a pity it has to end. I would love to prolong it, but I don't think that is possible." He had kept his gun trained on Holmes the entire time, his aim never wavering.

"Now, then. Should I dispose of you first, or the good doctor? I'm leaning towards Dr. Watson myself. The poor fellow has certainly suffered enough as it is. It would certainly be more mericiful to put him out of his misery. Not to mention that he has already had to mourn your death for three years. I believe it is _your _turn to suffer now."

Holmes shifted his body so that he was completely shielding Watson. "Don't worry Watson, it's going to be all right," he whispered, not really believing it.

"Now, now, don't worry. You have suffered enough yourself. Your end will be quick now, I promise," Wilson said in a soothing tone. "Just close your eyes, Mr. Holmes. It is all over now."

* * *

"So, now what? Do we knock?" Gregson asked. He and Lestrade were standing just outside the address that Holmes had written on the separate paper that went with his note. "It does not look as though anyone is here."

"Appearences can be decieving, Gregson. We've both spent enough time with Mr. Holmes to have figured that out." Lestrade could only pray that they had not arrived too late. He removed his coat and wrapped it around his hand as he walked toward a window.

"What in the name of the Devil are you-" Gregson hissed as Lestrade punched the glass. "Have you gone completely mad?" _No sense in keeping my voice down now,_ he thought as the glass shattered.

At almost the same instant, a shot rang out, coming from one of the upper floors.

"No time for formalities, Gregson. Inside, quickly!" Lestrade brushed the larger shards out of the way as he crawled through the window. Tumbling to the floor he immediately leapt back to his feet and made for the stairs.

"Which room, which room," Lestrade whispered frantically. Just then another shot rang out, and this time the bullet struck the door Lestrade had just opened. He looked down to the end of the hall just in time to see the door close.

"You all right?" Gregson asked as he ran up to Lestrade.

"Yes. He's in there, and he's armed."

"Any sign of Mr. Holmes and the doctor?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I did not get a good look in the room, but they have to be in there with him." He shuddered. "That first shot we heard, you don't suppose-"

"We have to get them out of there! Come on, man. There are two of us and one of him." Now that they were in the heat of the moment, Gregson's only concern was getting everyone out alive.

Lestrade nodded and ran after Gregson. They reached the door to discover it was locked.

"Perhaps if we both ran into it together-" Gregson suggested.

"Worth a try."

They both backed up several steps and then ran at full speed into the door. There was a loud crack, and the door gave way. Both inspectors crashed to the floor of the room, their bodies screaming in momentary agony.

"Remind me never to do that again," Gregson choked out when he could finally speak. Then he and Lestrade removed their revolvers as they looked around frantically.

"There they are!" cried Lestrade, pointing across the room.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson lay on the floor, huddled against the wall. Holmes' body was lying across Watson's, as if to shield him. The detective's shoulder was bleeding, and the doctor...

"Dear God," whispered Gregson, running over to them.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, can you hear me?"

Holmes' eyelids fluttered, and he moaned softly. Very slowly, his eyes opened. When he saw Gregson and Lestrade leaning over him his face filled with relief.

"Watson's hurt, you must get him to Charning Cross!" he demanded.

"You're injured too," Gregson pointed out. He noticed the detective was rubbing the front of his shirt. A moment later Holmes pulled something from his pocket.

"Watson's watch," Holmes whispered to himself. "The second bullet must have struck it."

Pieces of the metal disk bent outwards like the petals of a flower. Holmes shivered. He had kept the watch with him ever since Wilson had brought it to him.

"_Wilson!"_Holmes shouted, his mind returning to the present. "Where-?" His gaze shot to the ceiling. "The attic, of course!"

Holmes struggled to his feet and made his way to the trap door. Lestrade grabbed his good arm.

"Are you out of your mind? You're injured and he's still armed, you can't win."

"Wilson is mine! Get Watson out of here and to the hospital as I asked." Holmes shook free of the inspector's grip and disappeared into the attic.

Lestrade followed behind him, yelling over his shoulder to Gregson, "You heard the man, get Dr. Watson out of here." Under his breath, he added, "Meanwhile I'll try to keep Mr. Holmes from killing himself-again."

Inside the attic were what had to be a dozen or more bird cages, each one holding at least three birds. Scattered on the floor was the straw that had been used to line the cages. The smell-and noise-was almost overwhelming. It was dark in that room as well, and Lestrade nearly collided with Holmes.

"Why would he go up here? He would have been better off attempting a jump out the window. In here he's trapped."

The attic was quite large, and neither Lestrade nor Holmes could see where their prey had gotten to. It was as if he had vanished.

"Over there!" Holmes shouted, running towards a light that had appeared in the floor at the far end of the room. Lestrade followed close behind.

"He pried open the floor boards and dropped to the room below," Lestrade realised. Gregson was trying to escape with Watson. Lestrade hoped his colleague would fire before Wilson could.

There was fortunatly a bed beneath the opening. Holmes dropped through first and ran out into the hall. Wilson was towards the stairs.

"Lestrade, your revolver, hurry!" Holmes yelled. He dodged as Wilson fired off another shot. "Don't let him escape!"

Lestrade wanted to fire, but it was hard getting a clear shot with Holmes right in front him. Finally he opened fire-and missed.

Wilson turned around to fire again. As he did, his foot slipped off the top stair. In his struggle to regain his balance he dropped his weapon. He managed to save himself by grabbing onto the railing. Wilson fumbled in his pocket for Holmes' revolver. Just as he was pulling it out, Holmes leapt onto him, and both men were sent tumbling down the stairs. In that commotion the revolver went off. They landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Horrified, Lestrade ran down after them. Blood had begun to pool underneath their bodies, and neither of them were moving.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	21. Chapter 21

**__**

I'm back again with another chapter! Thanks yet again for all the great reviews.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade cried out as he took the stairs three at a time, nearly falling himself. He kept his revolver ready. If it was Wilson who rose, he would not remain standing for long. Lestrade was all too happy to save the state the trouble of hanging.

Just before he reached the bottom of the stairs he noticed movement. A few seconds later Mr. Holmes cautiously pulled himself up into a sitting position.

"Mr. Holmes, thank God!"

Holmes nodded in acknowledgement and immediately wished he had not. He had struck his head against a stair on the way down, and had aggravated the wound in his shoulder as well. His ribs ached and his legs were unsteady. Otherwise, though, he seemed to be all right.

"Here, let me help you," said Lestrade, offering his arm. Holmes took it, too tired to care about his pride. They both looked down at Wilson. The front of his shirt was drenched with blood, and his neck was bent at a sharp angle.

The sheer relief was almost as overwhelming as the tension had been earlier. _It is over,_ Holmes thought. _At long last it is truly over._

Then his thoughts snapped back to Watson.

"Watson! Where is he? Did Gregson-?"

"Yes, I'm sure he did," Lestrade said reassuringly. "Come on, now. We'll go to Charning Cross and meet up with them there."

The entire ride there Holmes prayed that Watson would be all right. _His injuries were so severe, and his eyesight-_ Holmes remembered what he had learned once in the mines. If a person was deprived of any sort of light for more than two days, it could lead to long term loss of vision.

Bile rose in the back of Holmes' throat. If Watson died or was left permanently crippled from his experience, then Wilson would have claimed victory from beyond the grave.

_Don't think that way! Watson **will **be all right._ But Holmes could not stop the ugly thoughts from invading his mind. Wilson was gone, but Holmes was still in the dark about Watson's survival. He wanted to take Watson home to Baker Street, but common sense told him that Watson needed to be in the hospital. his injuries were far too severe.

"When we get to the hospital, you should let the doctors have a look at you," said Lestrade, interrupting Holmes' thoughts."A change of clothes wouldn't hurt either. Now, don't look at me that way," he added when Holmes glared at him. "I am only saying that seeing you injured and covered with blood would not help Dr. Watson's state of mind."

Holmes glanced down at himself and saw what Lestrade was talking about. His clothes were drenched with both his and Wilson's blood. _No, it would not be good for Watson at all._ Holmes nodded in agreement.

"Good," said Lestrade. "After I get you into the hospital, I'll stop by Baker Street and bring you a change of clothes. What do you want me to tell Mrs. Hudson?"

"The truth," Holmes whispered. She had turned out to be an enormous help, and more importantly, she had been just as worried about Watson as Holmes was. It would be cruel to keep her in the dark now.

They arrived at the hospital to find Gregson waiting outside. "The doctors just took him back," the inspector explained, visibly relived to see Holmes and Lestrade alive. "They know I was waiting out here for you."

Lestrade remained in the cab while Holmes jumped out. "Now remember what I said," Lestrade told him. "Let the doctors treat you. I will return shortly."

_Who gave him the right to give me orders? _Holmes wondered indignantly. Wilson had been controlling everything from the beginning, and now Lestrade had taken over. Watson's fate, of course, was up to God. _When do I regain control?_

Holmes wearily shook his head as the cab left. Gregson grabbed him by his good arm.

"Come along, then. Let's go inside."

"When you brought Watson here, did he-" Holmes caught himself before he could ask, _did he ask for me?_ "Wake up?" he asked instead.

"Not entirely," answered Gregson. "He did ask for you a couple of times though. Oh!" Gregson added, as if suddenly remembering. "He also asked for Thurston as well. That was the same poor devil who had commited suicide a few days ago, wasn't it?"

Holmes nodded curtly. Thurston, of course, was completely undeserving of sympathy. It was he who had lured Watson into Wilson's trap. So weak that he had sold his own friend to the devil for some petty sum of money. _At least he had had the decency to feel guilty._

Holmes thoughts suddenly came to a halt. "He asked for Thurston? In what way? As if he were worried or-?" Considering all that Watson had went through, it was possible he might not remember how he had been captured. If that was the case, then that meant that Holmes would have to explain to him what had happened.

"His tone was pleading, the same way it was when he had asked for you."

By this time they were inside the building and two nurses came over, bringing the conversation to a halt.

"If they have any news about Dr. Watson, I'll make sure you hear it," Gregson promised as Holmes was lead away.

The whole time Holmes was getting cleaned up, his thoughts remained on Watson. He was vaguely aware of the doctors telling him that the gunshot wound had been a through-and-through, and a rather nasty bump on his head from his tumble down the stairs that thankfully was not a concussion, but he should take it slowly all the same.

Holmes reluctantly had to admit that he did feel slightly better(if only physically) once his shoulder had been patched up and he was able to change into the clean clothes that Lestrade brought back.

"Don't you have to return to the house with your superiors?" Holmes asked the inspectors, as he suddenly remembered that they had just left Wilson's corpse behind, without even putting a bobby on guard.

"I sent a telegram to the Yard before I came back here," Lestrade told him. Holmes did not fail to miss the look Gregson sent the other inspector.

"We're going to need more than a telegram to explain our actions, Lestrade," Gregson said softly.

Lestrade gave him a look that clearly said, _not now._

"What do you mean?" Holmes was only half interested, and mostly asked to keep his mind occupied.

"We-we did not exactly have a warrant when we broke into Wilson's home," Gregson said, rubbing the back of his neck. Lestrade glared at him again.

"If we hadn't, the good doctor and Mr. Holmes here would have died. We made the only decision we could."

"I'm not disputing that. I am only saying it might be hard to prove it."

"Their injuries are not proof enough?" Lestrade asked indignantly.

"It might give them a reprieve for the death of Wilson, but it might not help our cause. We may just find ourselves out of work." Gregson's tone was one of defeat. Lestrade apparently could not think of a decent reply to this and instead turned to Holmes.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I suppose we're not really being much help here, are we?" Neither inspector made any move to leave, however.

"You can stay," Holmes said softly, realising that they both were worried about Watson as well. Perhaps it was not entirely fair to blame them for Watson's kidnapping. After all, the evidence against Wilson that had been available at that time might not have been enough to hold up in a court of law. Then there was the fact that both men had just jeopardised their careers, and lives, to make things right.

Holmes cleared his throat, then added, "If you are looking for a story to tell your superiors, you can always claim you were passing by the residence when you heard a cry for help, followed by gunshots, coming from inside the residence. Naturally you had to break in and intervene. I'll testify before any court of law that I cried out in a final desperate attempt to survive."

Gregson nodded. "That could work."

"We still have Mr. Holmes' note as well, Gregson, don't forget that. Lying may not be necessary," Lestrade pointed out. "And with Wilson dead, this case might not get much beyond the paperwork stage. Mr. Holmes may not even have to go to court."

Before Gregson could reply, a doctor walked over to where the three men were sitting.

"Were you the ones who brought Doctor Watson in?"

Holmes wanted to leap to his feet, but his legs had started trembling and he doubted they would hold him up.

"Yes," Gregson answered for him. "Will he be all right?"

Holmes held his breath, anticipating the worst.

"He was dehydrated and malnourished," the doctor answered, "the most severe wound, the one on his shoulder is slightly infected. But it seems though that that wound and the others had since been cleaned and treated. "

That piece of news made Holmes shudder. Wilson had really wanted to prolong Watson's suffering as long as possible.

"He also seemed to be exhibiting side affects from some sort of drugs, perhaps opium or morphine. "

_To keep Watson under control,_ Holmes guessed, wishing the doctor would just get to the point. Was Watson going to live or not?

"His eyes have become extremely sensitive to bright light..."

Holmes had stopped hearing the doctor's words. His heart was pounding so loudly it was drowning out all other sound. He focused on the doctor's face, trying to read his expression.

Finally, he was rewarded with a small smile. His heart rate slowly returned to normal and sound filtered through once more.

"He is going to need plenty of rest and lots of peace and quiet if he is to recover. No strenuous activities of any kind."

"May I see him?" Holmes asked, his voice hoarse. The doctor nodded.

"Keep it brief, though. He does need his rest."

"Of course." Holmes followed the doctor to Watson's room.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	22. Chapter 22

**__**

I was begining to think I'd never get this thing finished! I must say thank you once again to everyone who took the time to read this thing and leave reviews. I really appreciate the feedback!

* * *

Watson was asleep when Holmes entered the room. His wounds were cleaned and bandaged, and he almost looked peaceful. Holmes felt his heart sink a little. He had been hoping that Watson would be awake so that they could truly be reunited at last. That was going to have to wait a little bit longer. Very gently, so as not to wake him, Holmes leaned forward and lightly brushed the hair away from Watson's eyes. Watson flinched ever so slightly, but did not awaken.

Holmes sat down in the chair next to the bed. He hoped that Watson would wake up before the doctors shooed him out. He did not want Watson to be alone when he woke up. Holmes started to reach for Watson's hand, then remembered how the physical contact had made him flinch.

_Why does he react that way? _Holmes wondered. _Does touching him actually hurt, or does he believe himself to still be Wilson's prisoner? _There was another theory that crept into Holmes' mind about what else Wilson might have done to Watson, but it disgusted Holmes so much he quickly tried to block it out again.

He watched Watson sleep for awhile, trying to think of what he was going to say when his friend finally woke up. Ask him about the details of his imprisonment? Was there any point in dwelling on it? Wilson was dead now. Still, Watson might _need_ to talk about it. Then again, if what Holmes was suspecting was true(and how could he possibly ask Watson _that?_) Watson might desire to never speak of it again. _But he might need to, for his sanity's sake,_ Holmes reasoned, and his thoughts went round and round in this fashion. _How else will Watson know I'm willing to listen to him if I don't bring it up? Perhaps he would be happier just writing it down in his journals?_ He still was trying to decide on what to say when a slight noise from the bed directed his attention to Watson.

Watson was moaning softy, his hands twisting the bedclothes. Just as Holmes started to reach out to him, Watson's eyes fluttered open. He very weakly looked around the room until his eyes came to rest on Holmes. The detective held his breath, and when recognition registered in Watson's eyes he let out an enormous sigh of relief.

"Holmes," Watson croaked. "Yuh-you're hurt."

Holmes glanced down at the sling that cradled his arm and gave a weak smile. "Only a scratch, my dear fellow. You have had a far worse go of it than I."

The corners of Watson's mouth twitched slightly at the affectionate term. "You... look tired," he whispered. "You need sleep." It seemed as if he could only manage to say three words at a time before tiring himself.

"I will, Watson. Don't worry," Holmes reassured him, not sure if he was biting back a laugh or a sob. After all Watson had been through, his first thoughts were of Holmes' safety. Holmes swallowed hard. "You need to rest too," he said finally.

The tiniest flicker of alarm flared up in Watson's glassy eyes. "N-no," he stammered.

"It is all right, Watson. You are safe now. We both are. You can sleep without fear," Holmes said soothingly.

"Will you-?" Watson started to ask, already drifting off in spite of himself.

"I will stay as long as the doctors let me," Holmes promised, but Watson had already fallen back asleep.

Holmes leaned back in his chair, feeling his eyes sting. _Watson's right, I **am **tired._ He silently thanked Lestrade for convincing him to get cleaned up. If Watson had seen him covered with blood, it would have upset the dear doctor terribly.

"I'm sorry, but you have to go now," The voice from the doorway startled Holmes from his thoughts. He was tempted to refuse, and put up a fight. Common sense prevailed though. Fighting with the hospital staff would not help Watson at all. Very reluctantly, Holmes left the room.

"You can come back tomorrow," the nurse called after him.

Holmes nodded. Yes, he would do that. Lestrade and Gregson were still sitting where he had left them. He mentioned that Watson had briefly awakened, but did not go into any further detail.

"He'll be all right," Lestrade promised, and Gregson nodded in agreement.

"If it would make you feel any better, one of us can stay here in case he wakes up again," he offered. "And we'll send you a wire."

"Thank you," Holmes murmured.

After a small discussion, Lestrade was chosen to remain at the hospital while Gregson escorted Holmes home.

"Mrs. Hudson was relieved to hear that you were both all right," Lestrade told him.

_Knowing Mrs. Hudson, she most likely will not truly feel at ease until she sees both Watson and myself enter 221b under our own power._ Holmes thought.

Compared to all the other cab rides he had taken during the course of this nightmare, the ride home seemed mercifully brief.

The moment he stepped through the door, Mrs. Hudson walked over to him. Very gently, she hugged him. At first Holmes was too surprised to react, but then he patted her on the shoulder just before she withdrew.

"I've already gotten started on supper, Mr. Holmes, and I expect you to eat it," she said sweetly.

Holmes was surprised to discover that he _did _feel a little hungry. He smiled and nodded.

"And afterwards I want you to try to get some rest. You have had a very rough go of it, and you'll need to take things slowly so you can recover," Mrs Hudson continued as she started to leave the room.

"Clucking away like a mother hen," Holmes muttered under his breath as he stretched himself out on the couch. Could he really sleep though? He remembered his words to Watson.

_Watson's safe now, we both are._ The real nightmare was over. Holmes just had to keep telling himself that. All that remained now were the ghosts.

_Watson will have questions,_ Holmes thought. _"And I will have to answer them when he is stronger."_ Holmes still did not know what he was going to tell Watson, or ask him. Perhaps if he got some sleep, he would be able to think of something. Maybe all he needed was a clear head... then the answers would come to him.

When Mrs. Hudson re-entered the room, she found Sherlock Holmes fast asleep on the couch. Smiling, she set the tray she was carrying on the dinning table. She went into his bedroom and pulled the blanket off the bed. Returning to the sitting room, she gently covered him with it.

* * *

Morning brought freezing rain. Holmes made sure to dress warmly before leaving in order to avoid more mothering from Mrs. Hudson. He did not want to stay in the flat all day, not when Watson was finally safe at the hospital. The breakfast she had served was enough to keep him from shivering for most of the cab ride to the hospital.

During breakfast Holmes had taken the time trying to rehearse what he would say in response to Watson's questions. Unfortunatly, neither the sleep nor the rehearsing had helped much. He had only a vague idea of what he would say and how he would say it.

Watson looked slightly stronger than he had the night before. At the very least, he appeared to be more luccid. Holmes knew that it would be a long time before his friend was fully recovered from his experience, both physically and mentally. Holmes had to admit that the mental scars frightened him more than the physical ones.

"Holmes," Watson smiled at him. Holmes returned it with a twitchy smile of his own.

"How are you, my friend?" It took every ounce of self control to keep his voice steady.

"Tired, very tired. But also relieved."

Holmes nodded. He knew what Watson meant.

Watson seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Holmes?" he asked finally.

"Yes? What is it Watson?"

Watson plucked at a loose thread on the blanket. "I was wondering..." his voice trailed off.

"Go ahead, if you have a question I'll do my best to answer it," Holmes promised, then instantly wondered if he had made a mistake.

"It is just, the last thing I remember-before I was captured-" those four words were spit out in such a hurry they almost bled together, "I had been talking to Thurston. We had been playing pool, and then... he was so upset about... something. He asked for my help, and then..." Watson started to shiver.

Holmes cautiously took Watson's hand. This time Watson did not flinch.

"What happened to him Holmes? I still can't remember, no matter how hard I try." Watson looked Holmes straight in the eyes. "Do you know? Did that animal would kidnapped me, did he harm Thurston?"

Holmes had no idea what to say. Should he tell Watson the truth? That this man whom he was so worried about had betrayed him? Sold him to the Devil in exchange for some money and then took his own life out of guilt? Could Holmes really say that?

He could lie to Watson... the only other people who knew about Thurston's betrayal were Thurston and Wilson, and they were both dead. _But if Watson were to get his memory back... how would he feel, knowing that I've lied to him yet again?_

Watson was staring at him, his eyes filled with trust. Holmes took a deep breath.

"Thurston... committed suicide," Holmes said finally. _At least that is not a lie._"Yes," he said, aticipating Watson's next question, "It was undeniably suicide. The door and windows were all locked from the inside, and the murder weapon was in a death grip in Thurston's hand... I am so very sorry Watson."

"Suicide..." Watson murmured. "Why?"

"He blamed himself for you abduction," Holmes told him. _Quite correctly too,_ he mentally added.

"He had managed to escape them then? Did he come to you?"

_Watson you trusting fool,_ Holmes thought with a mixture of frustration and affection.

"Yes, he escaped, and no, he did not contact me. I had to go to him."

Was there still sympathy in Watson's eyes? Not even the tiniest flicker of betrayal? _Oh, Watson, can't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?_ Granted, he was still quite weak from his experience, but still...

"Poor devil had been scared out of his mind when I spoke to him," Watson said softly. "That is what I remember most, his terror."

Holmes bit down hard on his tongue to keep from blurting out the truth. _Thurston is undeserving of your pity Watson!_

Watson closed his eyes. Holmes thought he had fallen asleep, but then Watson spoke again.

"So, who captured me? Whomever it was Thurston owed money to?"

"Do you remember a canary trainer, from the East End? You encountered him during my... disappearance."

Watson nodded with a slightly puzzled expression. "Scotland Yard didn't think anything was suspicous about him. I had come to think that they had been right, and I was drawing conclusions when none were there," he coughed, and Holmes put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Easy, Watson. I think we should continue this conversation at another time. I've exhausted you enough as it is."

"No, please, Holmes tell me more," Watson begged.

"All right, but only if you remain silent."

"My suspicions of him were correct after all then?"

"I told you to be quiet," Holmes chided affectionately, then turned serious again. "Yes, you were correct all along."

Watson's expression held a mixture of surprise and fear. "I was right..." he repeated.

"No doubt Lestrade and Gregson at least will be falling all over themselves begging for forgiveness for not listening to you," Holmes said, only half in jest. Watson stared at him for a long moment, and Holmes read the question in his eyes.

"Wilson is dead now Watson, and a plague spot has been removed from London's East End."

Watson smiled ever so slightly. "Hmm... that's a good phrase, I'll have to remember that one." He closed his eyes again.

"Already planning on your next story, eh? I thought you planned to publish that Baskervile case next," Holmes teased, though he secretly wondered if Watson would really want to publish this case before the public, given how personal it was.

Watson did not answer him, and Holmes could tell from his slow even breathing that he had fallen asleep once more.

"Sleep well, my friend."

* * *

**_To be continued... only the epilogue left! _**


	23. Chapter 23

**__**

Here it is at long last! The final chapter of this adventure. I am so glad so many people enjoyed this story and took the time to leave reviews!

* * *

"You did remember to take down those portraits of criminals, I hope."

"Of course I did, Mrs. Hudson. I know Watson would not want those faces staring at him through the darkness," Holmes said patiently as he tidied up his room. He had decided to switch rooms with Watson, at least until the doctor recovered, to save him an extra climb up the stairs.

Holmes was trembling with nervous energy. Watson was finally being released from the hospital. He was coming back home to Baker Street where he belonged. Mixed in with Holmes joy was a slight bit of fear. They had not discussed the kidnapping after Holmes had explained that Wilson had been behind it. Holmes still did not know the full details of Watson's imprisonment, and Watson did not know the full details of Holmes investigation. Neither one had seemed willing to bring up the subject again.

_We'll have to though,_ Holmes thought as he removed Watson's watch from his desk drawer. He stared down at the twisted metal for a few moments. Watson's bloodied frock coat was still on the chair where Holmes had left it after Wilson had brought it over. Wilson's smug grin floated through Holmes' mind. Holmes shook his head, trying to erase the image.

Before he left the flat, he made sure to bring along a change of clothes for Watson.

"I'm leaving now, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes called out as he made his way down the stairs. "Watson and I shall return shortly."

* * *

He had visited Watson's room so many times that he no longer required an escort to get there. When he walked in, he found Watson sitting up in bed, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. He looked so vulnerable it made Holmes' heart ache. The bandages had finally been removed, but the scars were still there. He could see the one on Watson's forehead from across the room, though Watson had done his best to hide it with his hair.

_He'll have to see those scars every time he gets dressed,_ Holmes thought, swallowing hard.

For a split second Holmes found himself in Wilson's lair once more, and Watson was lying broken and bleeding on the floor, unresponsive to Holmes' cries.

"Holmes?" Watson asked worriedly. The detective was looking even more paler than usual, and dark rings were under his eyes. It appeared that this experience had been as hellish for Holmes as it had been for Watson. Watson thought that talking about it might help, but Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man who enjoyed talking about his feelings.

Then there was the fact that Watson himself was reluctant to discuss what had happened to him. How could he tell Holmes that he could still _feel _Wilson's fingers combing through his hair, the blade of the knife running along his body... he shivered, then glanced up quickly to see if Holmes had noticed.

Clearly he had. His eyes were filled with concern. For a long moment the two men just stared at each other. Finally Holmes broke the silence.

"I brought you some clothes from home," he said, handing the bag over to Watson. "Mrs. Hudson is looking forward to seeing you again," he added.

Watson smiled. "I look forward to seeing her as well."

More silence followed. Holmes cleared his throat.

"I'll just step outside so you can get dressed." He quickly left the room.

_It will be better once he's back at Baker Street, _Holmes tried to tell himself. _Things can finally start returning to normal._

The cab ride home was silent, save for the horses' hooves upon the pavement. It was not the usual comfortable silence that Holmes and Watson were so used to sharing though. This silence was thick and heavy, seemingly putting a distance between them.

_Talking about what happened really would help,_ Watson thought, _but I don't want to force Holmes to do anything he doesn't want to._ Watson tried to decide if he should leave it to Holmes to make the first move. One of the things the detective prided most was being in control of a situation. Since things had been completely out of his control during this nightmare, this was the chance for him to regain it.

_But how will he know that I'm willing to listen if I don't speak up? _Watson wondered. _I'll have to tell him about what I went through; and even though I don't blame him in the slightest he will still blame himself for not finding me sooner._

Though Holmes did not know it, his own thoughts were almost identical to Watson's. He knew that they had to talk about what had happened. They could not just sweep it under the rug and move on as if nothing had occurred.

Another part of Holmes' reluctance was fear. Suppose Watson did get his memory of that night back and realised that Thurston had betrayed him? Knowing that the person he had been worrying about all this time had done such a thing would hurt him terribly. He would also know that Holmes had lied to him. Holmes shook his head. _I'm doing this to shield him. Thurston has paid for his actions with his life. Watson does not need to know the full details. Besides, however cruel and selfish Thurston's actions had been, he had not been deprived of remorse._

The cab arrived at Baker Street. Holmes jumped out first, then helped Watson down. "Here we are," Holmes said, trying to smile. "Oh, Watson, I hope you don't mind but I rearranged things a bit."

"How so?"

"You'll be staying in my room until you're more fully recovered. I already cleaned things up a bit. That's all right with you, isn't it?"

"Of course," said Watson, touched by the gesture. "Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson already had a meal laid out by the time they climbed the stairs.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said, somehow managing to keep from flinching when she gave him a slight hug. She smiled back at him. It wavered ever so slightly at the sight of his scar, but a moment later her smile steadied.

"It is so good to see you again, Doctor," she said softly. "So very good," after one final glance over her shoulder at Holmes, she left the room.

"She is certainly a wonderful woman, isn't she?" Watson asked. Holmes nodded in agreement.

That nearly unbearable silence continued on into dinner, with only the clanking of the silverware to break it.

Holmes was not certain how much more of this he could take. Words he longed to speak kept getting caught in his throat, resfusing to come out. He picked up his violin off of the floor.

"Would it be all right if I played awhile?" he asked. Watson glanced up, surprised by the question.

"Of course, Holmes. I would be delighted to hear it." _Especially since I had come to believe that I'd never hear your music again,_ Watson thought.

Holmes curled up in his chair by the fireplace, and Watson stretched himself out on the couch.

The music that flowed from the violin was so beautiful, and yet so sad at the same time. Watson closed his eyes, allowing the music to wash over him. He let his mind drift, and for a few moments the distance between him and Holmes faded away.

It was only when the clock chimed the quarter hour that Holmes snapped out of his reverie. He looked up to see that Watson had fallen fast asleep. Holmes also realised that while he had been playing, he had also been crying. He hoped that Watson had not noticed.

_Would that really be such a terrible thing? Him knowing that you really do care for him? _Holmes did not know. Considering all the horrors of these past two weeks, having Watson see him cry should be the least of his worries.

Holmes set the violin down and watched Watson sleep. Now that the doctor was out of the hospital, there was no one to chase Holmes away from his side.

So far, Watson's sleep remained peaceful. Holmes wondered if his friend was dreaming. He hoped the dreams remained pleasent.

Holmes stifled a yawn. Perhaps he should get some sleep as well. They were both in the same room, if Watson was in any distress Holmes would hear it. It would not hurt to close his eyes for a few moments, would it? He had not had any nightmares in at least two days. It should be safe to sleep.

* * *

_It was so dark and cold. Watson tried to move his arms, only to find that he could not. His legs had also become immobilized. _No, _he thought. _Holmes saved me, he told me Wilson was dead. _Watson's struggles became more desperate. He had to get away before Wilson came back, he had too._

_Was this a dream? Or was his stay in the hospital one long fever dream that had cruelly ended? Where was Holmes? Watson opened his mouth to scream, only to have a large hand cover it, silencing him._

_"Hush, hush, hush," came that hated voice. Fingers combed through Watson's hair as the hand over his mouth tightened its grip. "Just be still now, all right? You'll tire yourself out."_

_Now Watson could feel cold steel against his neck. He tried to twist away and felt the blood, slippery and warm flow from the wound. Again he tried to scream, but all that came out was this terrible gurgling sound as the blood bubbled out from his lips. Above him he could hear Wilson's laughter which grew increasingly louder, echoing off the walls of the prison. The noise became almost deafening, and those hands were grabbing him by the arms, shaking him. _

_"Wake up! Wake up!" Wilson called through his gales of laughter. "_Wake up!_" _

* * *

"Watson wake up!" Holmes pleaded, too alarmed to keep the fear from his voice. He had been dozing on the chair, only to find himself in a terrible nightmare where Watson was screaming for help but Holmes could not find him. Holmes had awakened to discover that at least part of the dream was true. Watson had fallen off of the couch, but was still asleep, locked within his own terrible dream. Now Holmes was desperately trying to wake him.

"Come on, old man! It is I, Holmes. For God's sake wake up!"

Finally Watson's eyes snapped open. He looked around the room desperately, and finally locked eyes with Holmes.

"Holmes!" Watson relaxed, then quickly looked away. "I am sorry, Holmes. I did not mean to wake you," he said softly.

"There's no reason to apologise, Watson," Holmes reassured him. _He is embarrassed, and still frightened. What can I do to put his mind at ease?_ Holmes wondered, and then the answer came to him.

"You are not made of steel, Watson. You've been through a terrible ordeal. I would be even more worried if you weren't having nightmares." Holmes thought carefully about what he wanted to say next. "Do you wish to discuss it? You might feel better bringing it out into the open instead of keeping it all inside." Holmes managed a weak smile. "Isn't that what you often tell me?"

Watson looked down at the floor, chewing on his lower lip. "Perhaps," he said softly. "But only..." he paused.

"If I tell you what I went through?" Holmes finished for him. He was rewarded with the faintest glimmer in Watson's eyes. The doctor nodded.

"Very well," Holmes said as he helped Watson to his feet. "Here, come with me."

He lead Watson over to his desk and removed Watson's watch from the top drawer.

Watson's eyes widened in shock. "What happened to it?"

"Wilson brought this and the frock coat you had been wearing over here the morning after he abducted you." Holmes explained. "The watch had been intact, but the coat-" he swallowed hard. "There was a gash where he had stabbed your shoulder."

Watson ran a trembling hand over the scar. "My God," he whispered. During his imprisonment, Wilson had struck him as being completely insane, but to just waltz right into Baker Street that way...

Holmes explained about Wilson using an alias, and setting up the challenge and its rules. His normally pale face became paler still as he continued. Watson found himself reaching out and putting his hand on Holmes' wrist. Holmes did not pull away. He went on to explain his suspicions of it being a trap, but having no choice but to play along.

When he came to the part where he had discovered Watson, his voice nearly broke, and he had to swallow several times to regain control. "I was despertate when I could not get your attention, I truly feared that I had come too late."

"Wilson fired the first shot into my shoulder to get my attention, and keep me from returning fire," Holmes explained. "That was why I had my arm in a sling these past few days." Holmes' voice dropped to a whisper. "The second shot had been aimed at my heart, but this watch," he nodded at the timepiece, "stopped the bullet."

"My word..." said Watson softly. "I suppose it was then that Lestrade and Gregson arrived?"

"You remember, then?" Holmes asked curiously, staring into Watson's eyes.

"Not very clearly," Watson admitted. "I vaguely remember hearing Gregson's voice trying to reassure me that we were going to the hospital and that you'd meet us there. Other than that, not much."

"We were lucky," Holmes admited. "If they had not shown up when they had..." He quickly changed the subject. "What else do you remember?" Holmes prayed the memories did not include Thurston.

Watson shivered slightly. He did not want to give voice to all he had been through, but how could he deny Holmes after his friend had released his own demons.

"I remember talking with Thurston," Watson began, feeling a pang of grief for his fallen friend. "Then all of a sudden I awoke in absolute darkness. When I tried to move, I heard a voice telling me to keep still." Watson swallowed hard. "I then felt someone removing my shirt..."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had been jarred out of her sleep by the screams coming from upstairs. By the time she had thrown on a robe and made it half way up the stairs, the noise had stopped. More slowly this time, she finished the climb up the stairs.

Just beyond the door she could hear the doctor and the detective talking in low voices. Although their voices were too soft to distinguish much of what was being said, it was clear from their tones that they were discussing the kidnapping.

Even though she knew it was a severe invasion of their pirvacy to listen in on their conversation, she could not bring herself to leave. To finally have them back together again, where they belonged... she felt her eyes sting.

_It is good that they are talking,_ she thought. Now the real healing could begin.

Soon their voices had stopped. Mrs. Hudson silently counted to thirty before quietly opening the door. What she saw made her smile.

Both Holmes and Watson were fast asleep on the couch, holding on to each other's hands.

* * *

**_THE END! At long last! Thank you so, so, much to everyone who took the time to leave reviews, and to KCS, who helped me out with these last few chapters._**


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